


Roads

by panademonium



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Drama, Gen, Neo-Noir, Neo-Western, On the Run, Post-Felina, Post-Series, Recovery, Revenge, Road Trips, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panademonium/pseuds/panademonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse, Saul, and Skyler reunite on a journey to escape the consequences of their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Route 66

**Author's Note:**

> Although this work makes references to the events of [_187_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1146432), the previous fic is not required reading. This story stands alone as a continuation of the canon.
> 
> Extra material can be found on my [tumblr](http://panatheism.tumblr.com/tagged/roads).

**When we started out, I thought we was really goin' somewhere.  
This is it. We're just goin', huh?**

— _Bonnie and Clyde_ (1967)

　   
　   
　   
　

Saul hangs up the receiver and wipes it down one last time with his handkerchief. One can never be too careful, even when using a payphone out in the middle of nowhere at asscrack o'clock in the morning. He takes a step back and casts a glance around. The streets of Tucumcari are empty, the bars all cleared out an hour ago, and this particular gas station has been abandoned for months at least. 

Still, he can't shake the feeling he's being watched.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his suede jacket and turns to head back toward the garish neon beacon that is the Buckaroo Motel. Moonlight bends the shadows of the gas station's skeleton, darkness all stretched out across the pavement like it wants to drag him back in. It doesn't help that creeping feeling. He's being paranoid, of course. It's a tourist trap, not a Hitchcock movie. If he was thinking reasonably, he'd remember he's seen scarier things in his toilet than anything this washed-up town has got to offer.

Nevertheless, his fingers curl around the pistol in his right pocket. Better safe than sorry. That's his motto.

A second later, he lets out a jittering little laugh under his breath. The man is dead. What's he so worried about? Is the ghost of Heisenberg going to leap out of the desert? And if it does, does he intend to shoot it? It's over now. His body might not believe it without a couple more Xanax to help it along, but he'll get it through his head eventually.

Saul fumbles around for his room key instead. It's still an actual key, which is the funny thing. When was the last time any hotel used a key instead of a key card? An inch-tall plastic cowboy dangles from the end of it—just in case he forgets which piece-of-shit motel he's holed up in for the night, he supposes. To the drunken and blurry tourist eye, all the glowing hot-pink signs must look the same.

He looks over his shoulder one more time as he comes up to his room's door. Nothing but a deserted lot behind him, his faithful station wagon the only car to be seen. Off-season for a town that's permanently off-season. Who the hell cares about Route 66 anymore? And further, he reminds himself, who cares about Saul Goodman anymore?

The key needs a jiggle or two before the lock turns and the door swings open. The room is as dark as he left it, and he exhales a long sigh of relief as he steps inside. He shuts the door behind him and reaches for the light switch.

Before he can find it, something brushes his left temple and he freezes.

For a guy who prefers to stay out of trouble, he knows the feeling of gun metal too well. "Okay," he whispers, hands immediately in the air. "No trouble. No trouble. Wallet's in my left pocket. Take it. Take it, go on."

"I don't want your wallet, Saul." The voice is gravelly, lower and hoarser than the last time he heard it, but it's one he could never mistake or forget.

And, knowing its owner, Saul also knows that there's no talking his way out of this. Jesse Pinkman's here to kill him.

In one swift move that might be the only reflex he's retained from his days at the strip mall dojo, Saul dives and rolls behind the sofa chair. He pulls his own gun from his pocket with shaking hands and steadies it on the chair arm to aim into the darkness. Even without clear sight of his target, he pulls the trigger. Better to shoot first in situations like these. That is, situations where he's being cornered by a lunatic who's out for revenge and won't stop until he's dead.

_Click._

—Fuck, he left the safety on. His trembling fingers search for the lever in the dark, but Jesse finds him before he finds it. The pistol slips from his hands as Jesse pries it away to toss it across the room. A foot connects with Saul's chin and sends him sprawling back on the ground. As soon as he's down, he tries to skitter away, but that same foot comes down on his chest and pins him to the floor.

Despite having the wind knocked out of him, Saul knows he can't spare a moment to gather his bearings. This is a fight for his life. So he writhes and grabs hold of Jesse's ankle, twisting with all his might to throw off Jesse's weight. It works, and Jesse goes tumbling down over the chair.

With the path to the door blocked, Saul makes for the bathroom instead, crawling on hands and knees. He can hear Jesse struggling to his feet behind him but he doesn't look back. The door knob's within his reach. Another couple feet and he'll be inside. Maybe he can bludgeon Jesse with the ceramic toilet lid.

The bloodthirsty psycho snarls somewhere behind him, and just as his fingertips brush the door, a hand grabs Saul's calf to pull him back.  
  


###### 

  
Bobbing his head to the rhythm of the local country radio that's filtering into the break room via static-popping speakers, Saul takes a step back and examines his reflection in the mirror. He licks his comb and neatens his mustache a bit, then drags it through his hair. It's looking a bit grey these days. He can't blame it. His whole life feels a little grey compared to the circus it used to be. Things have brightened up since the Cinnabon days, but not vastly.

Spotting something, he leans in again. Ugh, nose hairs. Leave it to his head to grow hair everywhere but where he could use more of it. He'll have to trim that after his shift. No time now to keep fussing.

He straightens his collar and turns to grab his bone-white cowboy hat off the rack. The mirror gets one more glance as he plants the ridiculous thing on his head, and then he's out the door.

"Mornin', Gene," Shanice greets him with a smile as she passes him on the way to the kitchen.

"Howdy, Shanice," Saul calls back with a tip of his hat before he turns his focus to the register. It's secretly a life-sucking machine, he's sure of it. He can feel his energy draining with every second he spends looking at it.

Shanice already flipped on the **OPEN** sign and the first customers start making their way into the restaurant. Saul puts on his two-time employee-of-the-month smile as they step up to the counter. "Welcome to Bronco's, pardner! Can I interest ya'll in a Big Bronco Sausage-Egg-N-Cheese Breffist?"

"Just a number one and two kiddie meals, thanks," replies the somewhat haggard-looking mother, whose children are both currently trying to get her attention by tugging at her cutoff jeans.

"You know, for just ninety-nine cents extra, you can—"

"No, thanks," she dismisses Saul with a wave of her credit card.

"That's six seventy-five," Saul confirms, losing none of his chipper demeanor while he swipes her card. 

It's only once she's cleared out and he's cycled through a few more early morning customers that he finally gets a moment to himself. "Any chance for a coffee?" he calls back to the kitchen.

"Look behind you," Shanice hollers from out of sight.

Saul turns around and lets out a chuckle when he spots a thermos waiting for him on the shelf. "When the heck did ya sneak that over here?"

Shanice peeks around the corner, flashing a grin at him. "I just got that magic touch, baby. You know that."

"S'pose I do," Saul replies, raising his coffee in a toast to her. He leans up against the counter and turns his attention to the TV across the dining room. The morning news is playing on mute. "Where's the remote? I'm missing _The View_."

Shanice fetches the remote from wherever she had it stashed back there and hands it over. "Ain't even worth watching since my girl Star left."

Scandalized, Saul shoots back, "What about Whoopi?!"

Shanice rolls her eyes and saunters back toward the kitchen. "You and Whoopi have fun now."

Saul snickers to himself and turns back to the TV, raising the remote. Before he can change the channel, however, the headline on the screen captures his attention. His mouth drops open and he hastily turns up the volume.

"—was discovered early this morning just outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, inside what authorities are referring to as a methamphetamine 'superlab'. Federal officials have confirmed that this is without a doubt the body of the infamous kingpin known on the streets as Heisenberg. This brings an end to a months-long nationwide manhunt. We'll be bringing you more details on this developing story over the next hour..."

Saul slams his coffee cup down on the counter and shuts off the TV. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, wondering if he ought to say something. He hates to leave like this when Shanice has been so good to him, but courtesy is sort of a luxury he can't afford. He isn't the man she thinks he is and now it's time for ol' Gene to disappear into the desert from whence he came. Not hesitating another moment, he hurries around to the front door and out into the parking lot. On his way to the wood-paneled station wagon that's going to escort him back to his real life, he raises his hat in farewell to the grotesquely grinning Bronco's sign overhead.

"So long, Omaha!"  
  


###### 

  
With a jerk, as if starting from a nightmare, Jesse realizes there's music playing. A cassette in the deck. The sound is faint, but it's enough that when he hears the first notes of "Love is a Battlefield" chime beneath the roar of the wind and engine, it sends an automatic shiver down his spine. He ejects the tape and chucks it right out onto the highway, where the tires of a semi-truck crunch it into dust. He'd rather hear whatever squawky, twangy tune that's currently playing on AM radio than listen to another one of Todd's love songs.

Todd's dead now.

The sun's risen over the horizon, though Jesse has to guess at the exact time, since the clock on Todd's dashboard only reads a series of flickering digital lines. All that money and the guy could never be bothered to fix something so basic.

Not that it matters to Jesse, really. He knows it's been at least an hour and no one's trailing him. He's gone, what, a hundred miles in that time? East, apparently. He hadn't intended to go east, but that's where he found himself when he came to his senses.

Another couple miles and Jesse feels the car shudder. That's never good. He remembers how the Crystal Ship used to do the same thing, right when something was fixing to give out. He looks out the windows in every direction, but there's desert on all sides and no civilization in sight.

His eyes drop to the one gauge on the dashboard that's still working and he determines the problem: the pointer's pointing at E.

As the car begins to slow, he jerks the wheel to the right and pulls off the highway. It goes rolling onto the sand before it dies completely, just a few feet from some heavy brush. Jesse throws another look out the rear window, searching for signs of highway patrol.

Spotting none, he ducks back down and starts rifling through the car. He's on foot from here on out and there's no time to waste. He'll have to find shelter and water before the midday sun or he'll die out here, he knows too well.

There's a warm, unopened can of grape soda in the center console and he finds a loaded pistol and a wad of five hundred dollars in the glove compartment. Good. That's very good. He might be able to pay a trucker to get him to the next town. He hops out of the El Camino to check the cargo bed, too.

Jackpot. Todd's go-bag is back there, complete with ammo and more cash and a fresh outfit. Jesse hastily shrugs off his filthy clothes and shoves them into the pack, switching them out for something that'll attract less attention: a white t-shirt and khakis, plus a blue baseball cap. He can't do anything about his scars, but at least he looks more like a hipster on a backpacking trip than an escaped mental patient.

Once he's got everything he needs, he shifts the car into neutral and pushes it further down the hill, into the brush. It's not much of a camouflage, but it might buy him some time to get miles ahead before a cop notices it there.

He wipes his prints off the steering wheel and the door handle, then turns his back on the thing and makes his way back up to the road. With no markers around, he follows the morning sun as far as it will take him from Albuquerque.  
  


###### 

  
He doesn't look like he's asleep. Whoever first made that comparison must have never actually seen a dead body. He looks like plastic. Or maybe marble. He looks like a mannequin or a statue laid flat on a metal slab, with skin so white that it looks bluish under the harsh fluorescent light. His cheekbones seem as if they've been carved, each wrinkle crafted by an artist's tool. He is not asleep. He is not the man she married. He is not a man at all.

He's an object.

When she reaches out to brush his cheek, she flinches at the coldness of it and draws her hand back. She wants to turn to them and tell them that this can't possibly be him. He was breathing when she saw him yesterday. And she'd hated him. She can't hate something that's so obviously not real.

She feels a palm press gently into the small of her back as her sister steps up beside her. "That's him," Marie says, speaking for her.

The coroner nods and an officer beside him takes a few notes. "Take as much time as you need, Mrs. White," he says.

"It's _Ms. Lambert_ ," Marie snaps back at him.

The coroner opens his mouth to apologize, but Skyler shakes her head and turns away from the body. "We're finished here," she croaks.

When they step into the hall, a pair of agents are waiting to meet them. "Sorry for your loss," the taller one, Agent Hoffman, says. He doesn't mean it. How could any of them be sorry about the DEA's greatest victory in recent memory? "We wanted to give you an update on—"

"Guys, could you give us a moment here?" Marie sighs, waving them back. She isn't sorry, either. She's had a vibration to her all morning, a nervous energy that's bordering on giddy. She isn't _happy_ , but her relief is practically bursting from her bones.

The other agent, Van Oster, bows his head in apology. "Whenever you're ready."

"Good. Thank you. We're getting some air. This place reeks." She guides Skyler out the side door and into the morning sun.

Skyler immediately reaches for her cigarettes.

For once, Marie doesn't say anything about it. Instead, she wrings her hands and turns her face toward the breeze, searching for comforting words. "He looked peaceful," is what she comes up with. It sounds strained. She resents how serene and smug that expression was.

Skyler either laughs or coughs in response before taking another drag.

The slam of a car door draws both their attention to the road. A news van's waiting there, a crew already making their way down the sidewalk in a rush to get to the sisters. "Oh, for Christ's sake," Marie hisses. She turns around and throws the morgue door open, waving the agents over. "Make yourselves useful, would you? We've got vultures over here."

Skyler casts a contemptuous look at the cameras and tosses her cigarette to the ground. She turns to duck back into the building just as Hoffman and Van Oster brush past her. "No comment!" they shout into the microphones. "No comment!"  
  


###### 

  
High noon. That's what they call it, right? In the old westerns, when the sun beats down mercilessly from straight up above. He's only been walking for a few hours, but Jesse's skin is bright red and he's lost half his body's moisture in sweat. It must be ninety degrees out, or maybe even ninety-five. The horizon wavers like it's made of water. God, what he wouldn't give for a lake right now. Anything to cool his burning body.

When a town comes into view over on the opposite side of the highway, Jesse at first wonders if it's a mirage. As he comes closer and the few scattered buildings become clearer in his sight, he grows sure that it isn't. With no car in sight, he crosses over to the other side unhindered and makes a break for shelter at a half-trudging, half-running pace. Maybe it isn't smart to exert himself, but he can't bear the heat any longer.

One of the buildings is a relic from the last century, its chipped overhang reading **RICHARDSON'S STORE**. It's in better shape than the others, which are all half-collapsed stone and adobe ruins. And a store promises supplies—even if they might be fifty years old.

The temperature is at least ten degrees cooler as soon as he steps into the shade of the overhang, and Jesse takes a moment to lean up against one of the old gas pumps to catch his breath. Apparently gas cost sixty-four cents a gallon when this town's heart stopped beating. He thinks it'd be a little funny if he died right here and someone found his skeleton leaning just like this.

He isn't dead yet, though, and once he's got his strength, he stumbles into the store proper. Some other explorer kicked in the door long ago, and he finds the place a mess of mostly-empty cardboard boxes inside. Most of the surviving merchandise appears to be hanging on a clothes rack along one of the walls. He picks a dusty denim shirt off its hanger and brushes it off before shoving it into his bag. It'll come in handy later, keep the sun off his arms.

Jesse moves on and gets his hopes up a few times when he spots gallon jugs scattered around, only to find each one already emptied. He sifts through trash for another fifteen minutes before he gives up and settles down in the coolest spot on the property.

As he's pulling his backpack into his lap to search for that can of grape soda, a slam draws his attention to the front of the store. He squirms back, trying to wedge his body behind a pile of boxes, but a flashlight beam lands on him before he's fully hidden.

"Can I help you?" a quavery voice calls out.

Jesse keeps silent and still. As if that could make him go invisible or something.

An old man steps out from around the trash pile, the light from his torch traveling from Jesse's filthy sneakers to his dirt-streaked face. The stranger stops where he is, not three feet away. He repeats, "Can I help you, son?"

"U-Um…" Jesse rocks forward onto his knees, ready to make a break for it but not running yet. "I wasn't stealing."

The old man chuckles. "Well, I know that. There ain't a whole lot to steal."

Some of the tension melts off Jesse's shoulders. Laughter is good. "Yeah," he says, adding a weak chuckle of his own.

"If you were looking for the pop machine, it's out in the back by the mailboxes," the man offers. His flashlight's still shining on Jesse's face, blinding him.

"Oh." He can tell the man's examining his features, so he rolls to his feet finally. "Well, I guess I'll just… go find it."

"Hold on a second," the old man says, finally clicking off his light. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and Jesse's heart drops into his stomach before the old man reveals the water bottle he's carrying. He holds it out to Jesse. "You can have this one. Just bought it. Haven't even opened it yet."

Jesse swallows and takes a cautious step forward to accept the thing. "...Thank you."

"You'd be surprised how many dead kids we get out here, dropping from heat exhaustion and the like," the man says with a wry smile. "Guess they don't teach you in college: midday's a hell of a time to go out hiking the Mother Road."

"Yeah," Jesse says with a nervous smile of his own before he raises the bottle to take a gulp of water. "Yeah, I guess I got stupid."

The old man's gaze drops to Jesse's wrist. To the raw scabs and marks there, the telltale evidence of handcuffs worn for many hours and many days. Once he sees them, he doesn't look away.

Jesse knows he's caught. The old man might not recognize exactly who he is, but he knows this is a runaway of some kind. There's no doubt. The second he leaves the store, he'll call the police. The only way to stop that from happening is to keep the old man from leaving. The only way to keep the old man from leaving is to use Todd's gun.

As Jesse begins to shift his weight, the old man speaks again: "You ever see _Cool Hand Luke_?"

"What?" Jesse stops and shakes his head. "Um, no."

"Oh, that's too bad. That's a classic right there. Always did like that one."

Jesse looks the man up and down, puzzled. He expects it's a distraction of some kind, or he's leading up to an attack, but the old man doesn't move.

"Wasn't too fond of the end, though. Poor boy's praying to God and he says, 'When does it end? What you got in mind for me next? What do I do now?' ...And you know what happens next? A buncha coppers track him down and shoot him in the throat." The old man sighs. "What kinda ending is that?"

A tremor runs through Jesse's body. "Pretty bad one," he murmurs.

"Pretty bad one," the old man agrees. "I woulda wrote it different."

Jesse says nothing. A moment of silence passes between them, their eyes locked and neither one blinking.

Finally, the old man turns away. "Time to fix up some lunch. I'm in the house just up the road, if you feel like joining me. Don't get too many visitors."

This might be his only chance. Jesse bends to unzip his backpack and looks at the pistol resting on top of his clothes. Now's the time to use it, if he's ever going to. But he clenches his jaw and pushes it aside to make room for the water bottle before closing the bag back up. Shrugging the pack onto one shoulder, he rises and trails after the old man.  
  


###### 

  
Ramey clears his throat, casting an uneasy glance at Skyler before directing his full attention to Marie. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Schrader," he says, in an echo of every agent before him. Hollow words of sympathy repeated ten thousand times in the past six months.

Marie shakes her head, her lip giving the slightest quiver but her eyes sharp and focused. "I want to see him."

Ramey's mouth twitches into a frown. "The remains are in a considerable state of decomposi—"

"Then how do you even know it's him?" she quips.

"Marie…" Skyler whispers, reaching to touch her sister's arm.

"I'm serious," Marie says, her eyes still challenging Ramey. "How can you know for sure?"

"Our forensics team was able to use a number of identifiers," Ramey replies. "Both Hank and Steve were carrying their badges. Dental evidence was a perfect match. There is no doubt in our minds. So there is absolutely no need for you to subject yourself to—"

"If Skyler could do it, I can do it," Marie insists, her hands closing into fists. "I just want to be sure. I… I _have_ to be sure."

Ramey clears his throat and drops his gaze to the folder in his hands. "Alright. We'll call you in as soon as our team is finished collecting evidence." He turns to look at Hoffman and Van Oster, who've been lurking at the doorway to the meeting room. "Could you escort the ladies to their respective homes?"

"Skyler's coming home with me," Marie corrects. "It's a media circus around her apartment right now. She can't stay there."

Ramey nods. "Of course." When he looks at Skyler, his face hardens subtly. "I don't think I need to remind you that you're not to leave the state for any reason while this investigation is ongoing."

"I understand," Skyler responds in a hollow murmur.

"For God's sake, Ramey," Marie sighs as she puts an arm around her sister. "She isn't going to _run_."

His skepticism is plain in his eyes. "If the paparazzi start to swarm, give us a call and we'll scatter them."

"Thank you," says Marie, her tone clipped with lingering indignation.

"There's no need to thank me, Mrs. Schrader. Your husband was a hero. You deserve your privacy in this difficult time."  
  


###### 

  
Dusk sets the sky behind the mesa on fire. Jesse keeps his eyes on it as the scenery rolls past, taking in the red and orange hues against the encroaching blue twilight. He already feels a million miles from yesterday, and the entire world around him seems new and unexplored.

"Beautiful, ain't it," the old man says from the driver's seat. " _Tukamukaru_. That's what the Indians called it. It means 'waiting for something to approach'."

"That's a weird name for a mountain," Jesse remarks. To him, it looks more like something man-made. Like an Aztec pyramid or a temple of some kind. He probably would've named it Big-Ass House. Or whatever the Indian word for that is.

"Ain't so weird when you think about it. They'd go up there and keep watch for their enemies, ambush 'em when they knew they could get the upper hand."

"Hm…" Jesse rests his chin on his palm, his gaze moving over the foothills that lead down into the valley. "I guess that makes sense."

The old man turns the wheel, taking them off of 40 and onto the exit for Old 66. "We're coming up on the edge of town now," he announces, glancing over. "You sure this is where you want me to leave you? I could take you all the way to the bus stop if you want. You got a few hours to kill, there's a McDonald's right next to it."

"I'm okay here," Jesse assures him. "I like to keep my legs moving."

"'course."

The pickup rolls to a stop along the curb and Jesse hops out, pulling his backpack onto his shoulders. He pauses to look up at the old man, not quite sure what to say. "Thanks," he offers after an awkward moment. "For the ride. And the lunch. And the water."

The old man smiles down at him. "It was the Christian thing to do." His eyes settle briefly on Jesse's backpack as if he knows what's in there, what could have gotten him killed, but he makes no comment about it. Instead he says, "Be sure and keep those sleeves rolled down. Was a time when folk in these parts paid no mind to a man in bracelets, but they don't call this town Six Shooter Siding anymore and the Outlaw West is good and gone."

Jesse's eyes go wide but he gives a quick nod. He doesn't even consider reaching for the gun now, though he's almost certain the man knows exactly who he is.

"Anyway, it's been an adventure." The old man reaches across to pull the passenger door shut. "Good luck to you, son. This ain't the end of it."

Jesse raises a hand in farewell as the truck pulls away and disappears around the curve. When the tail lights have blinked out of sight, he turns to make his way down the historic highway, passing a sign that proclaims **TUCUMCARI WELCOMES YOU!**

He doubts that.

In the half hour it takes him to cross town, he passes a slew of kitschy motels. He can't understand why anyone would visit this town if they weren't on the run and searching for an oasis in the desert out of desperate necessity. There's literally nothing to see but neon signs and boarded up buildings, the casualties of a collapsed economy. Especially when thrown into sharp contrast with the natural beauty outside the town limits, it's depressing the hell out of him.

Which is weird, really. He should be happy. He _was_ , for the first few hours—deliriously so. But as the night settles in, so does the precariousness of his situation. The world has moved on without him. He's on his way to buy a bus ticket, but he has no idea where to. He has to keep his legs moving. That's all he knows. And he only knows that because his fear tells him so.

The streets are silent and lonely, and all of a sudden they feel oppressive, too. Jesse's chest tightens and his breath catches in his throat. He leans up against the nearest telephone pole, hugging himself. There's no one to guide him. No one left to follow. Is this how he carries on for the rest of his life? An endless stretch of asphalt going nowhere?

Forget the bus. His feet refuse to take him there. He sinks down to the ground and buries his face in his hands. As soon as he's steadied his breath, exhaustion overtakes him.

When was the last time he slept? It's been forty hours, at least…

He jerks awake at the sound of laughter and springs to his feet, looking all around. For a moment, he's completely disoriented. He expects the four walls of his cage, and chains around his ankles, and shadows moving overhead. Laughter usually signalled something terrible for him.

But he's not in that place anymore. Slowly, it comes back to him: he's in Tucumcari now. The sky is fully dark and the moon has risen, which means he probably missed his bus out of town.

He didn't imagine the laugh. There it is again. With nothing else to do, he follows the sound around a thicket of brush and cacti. He expects to find a bar there, but there's only another abandoned gas station. The whole damn highway is littered with them.

"You're killing me here!" The voice is disembodied. It's coming from somewhere in the shadows. "No, believe me, if I could drive another second, I would."

Jesse freezes in mid-step and shrinks back, holding his breath. He knows that voice.

—No, wait. That makes no sense. He can't possibly. It's his mind again, playing tricks. Or he's still dreaming. There isn't even anybody over there. He's hearing voices, like a genuine crazy person.

He refuses. He's only just managed to break free. He isn't going to let those fuckers win now. He won't listen. If he's lost it, then he'll find his way back to sanity.

But the voice carries on: "I'll be there first thing in the morning. Count on it, HT. I just need my beauty rest. —Oh, very funny."

Jesse veers back toward the gas station, his eyes glaring through the night. As they adjust, he finally locates the source of the voice: a familiar silhouette beside a payphone, visible between the branches of shrubbery.

He exhales with a tremble and reaches for his backpack.

"I can wait up if you wanna drive over and spend the night. ...Fine, be that way." Saul laughs again. It sounds forced, with an edge of nervousness. "I don't remember the phone number. It's the Buckaroo Motel. Lucky thirteen. Yeah, I missed you, too. We're in the home stretch. I'll see you at…"

Jesse's hand drops away from the bag. The Buckaroo Motel. He passed that earlier. He ducks back the way he came, moving as quickly and quietly as he can through the dark streets.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse pins him to the ground with surprising strength, forearm pressed beneath his chin to cut off any shouts for help he might attempt to make. Saul gasps and struggles, hands clawing at Jesse's sleeves, but it's a losing fight as he starts to run out of oxygen.

"Stop moving," Jesse hisses, pushing more of his weight onto Saul's chest when he ducks down, so close that Saul can feel his breath. "I'll let go if you stop moving. I'll kill you if you don't."

With no choice left, Saul goes still and drops his hands away.

Jesse apparently needs a moment to recover, too. He traps Saul's arms with his knees, straddling him while he sucks in a few deep lungfuls of air.

"Jesse," Saul coughs, keeping his voice low enough to keep from agitating him. "Let's talk about this."

"You don't need to talk," Jesse growls. "You just need to stay there."

"Okay. Okay. I'm staying."

With a groan, Jesse rolls off of him and stumbles across the room. He finds a light switch and flicks it on, locating Saul's gun after a quick scan of the area. He has both of them pointed at Saul's chest when he comes stomping back.

This is the first glimpse that Saul gets of Jesse's face, and he doesn't even recognize it. If he hadn't heard that voice first, he would never have guessed. All that remains unchanged are those wild blue eyes—and the burning hatred behind them. They take him right back to the last time Jesse had a gun pointed at him.

"What're you doing here?" Jesse demands, his aim unwavering.

"What?" Jesse's asking that question like he didn't stalk Saul here to begin with. "Uh... This is my hotel room."

"Not here. I mean _here_. This town. This place."

Oh. "This is the only road back to Albuquerque. I'm—I'm headed home, Jesse."

"Where were you before?"

"Omaha."

"Why?"

"' _Why?_ '" Saul asks, incredulous, with a nod to Jesse's weapons. "Why do you _think?_ "

Comprehension crosses Jesse's features and he takes a step back. "If you were hiding, why're you coming back now?"

"Because they're all dead. Because _you're_ supposed to be dead. You're crazy if you think I wanted to spend the rest of my days in goddamn Nebraska!"

Jesse clenches his jaw and lunges forward again. "Don't call me that."

"—What?" _Crazy?_ Saul shrinks back a bit. "Okay, yeah. Sorry. Yeah."

"Who knows you're here?"

"Nobody."

Jesse slams his foot into Saul's ribs. " _Who knows?!_ "

Saul curls in on himself, choking, "Francesca! Francesca knows! Nobody else, I swear!" He sucks in a sharp breath. "But believe me, if I go missing—If I go missing, somebody's gonna come looking for me."

"They won't find you," Jesse mutters darkly, the barrel of his gun fixed squarely between Saul's eyes.

"Please don't do this, Jesse," Saul begs, his voice rising to a shrill whine. "It's all over now, isn't it? What's the point of this?"

"Shut up, Saul. I'm not finished."

Saul looks simultaneously relieved and bewildered. If Jesse's not here to kill him, then what's he going to do?

"Pack your bags. We're hitting the road. _Now._ "

Saul starts to sit up. "Whoa, hey, hold on—"

Jesse plants his foot on Saul's chest and pushes him back down, his eyes alight with warning. He doesn't look like he'll hesitate to fire those guns. After all, he's perfectly capable of stealing Saul's car and driving himself.

Saul settles against the floor, but he keeps talking, "Let me just—Listen, okay? Professional advice. You wanna cross the border, right? I get it. The thing is, I'm not the guy for that job."

Jesse cocks the pistol in his right hand.

"I'm the guy who can get you to the guy!" Saul blurts quickly, flinching. When Jesse doesn't shoot him, he goes on, "Fair's fair, right? Believe me, nobody wants you outta town more than I do. So… Let's just call this a truce, huh? Keep the gun. Sleep with it, for all I care. Just quit _pointing_ it at me."

Doubtful of Saul's sincerity, Jesse stares down at him for another long moment. Then, finally, he lifts his foot and retreats, tucking both guns into the waistband of his khakis.

Saul scrambles to his feet and brushes himself off. Jesse's left a coat of dust on his formerly pristine attire. "I'm gonna hand you my keys and my wallet. That way I can't run off, right? Let's rebuild a little trust here."

Jesse holds his palm out wordlessly in a classic _just-shut-up-and-give-it-to-me_ fashion. Once Saul's surrendered them over, he tucks the items into his jacket without looking at them.

Now the tough news. "Just one thing: we can't leave tonight," Saul tells him.

Jesse isn't surprised he's trying this tactic. "Why not?"

"I've been on the road for close to twenty hours. I'm exhausted. And look at you! I'm guessing it's the same for you, right?"

Jesse's lips pull back into a sneer. "Yeah, I guess I oughta take a hot shower. Get a little shut-eye. No way you'll call somebody up to come and waste me while I got my back turned. Speaking of that, where's your cell?"

Saul sighs. "I don't have one. I've been using payphones like it's 1977. Search me if you want."

"Maybe later." Jesse juts his chin forward. "Get your stuff together. We're leaving in five minutes. No more excuses."

Saul stares at Jesse. It's hard to believe this is happening. Fifteen minutes ago, he was free and clear on his way back to his old life. Nothing was supposed to be left standing in his way. This feral ghost standing in front of him was meant to have been killed by Walt's henchmen half a year ago. The man himself had assured Saul of that.

Instead, the kid's here. And he's worse than Heisenberg on the scale of 1 to Norman Bates. Saul has no choice but to go along with it until he can reach some help.


	2. Route 40

Skyler lights a cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand. The newspaper on the table beside her flutters in the breeze, held in place only by her coffee mug. Once she's had a good drag, she looks out past the railing of Marie's back porch to the rolling valley leading toward downtown. The sun is only just rising, and it casts a pale pink glow over the tawny hills and the enormous houses sprinkled across them.

Everything is blessedly silent. No one tolerates shouting reporters in a neighborhood like this. If anyone's photographing her, at least they're far enough away that she doesn't hear the camera's shutter.

Her eyes return to the paper spread out on the table. Her ex-husband's story is everywhere. She couldn't escape it if she tried, so she doesn't. Better to know where the public's thoughts are, anyway. Better to prepare for them, for the questions at work and the stares at the supermarket and the meetings at school with Flynn's understandably concerned teachers.

She holds the paper down while she lifts her mug for a drink. The moisture from the bottom of her cup has circled a photo, and she pauses to glower at it. Jesse Pinkman's mugshot. An old one she's grown familiar with after a thousand broadcasts and printings. She eases forward to read the caption.

Before she gets a chance, the back door opens and Flynn steps out onto the porch, leaning on his crutches. "Hey, mom."

Skyler puts her mug down and smiles weakly up at him. "Hey, you."

"Louis is taking me to school today," he tells her, "so you don't have to worry about it."

She nods, tapping her ashes off into the tray next to her.

"I think I'm gonna spend the night over there, too. If that's okay."

"Sure."

Flynn looks like he wants to ask her something else, but he's not quite sure how to bring it up. "Um…"

"Yes?" she prompts him patiently before bringing the cigarette back to her lips.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Flynn mumbles, "Is there, uh… Is there gonna be a funeral?"

Skyler's hand lowers, cigarette resting on the edge of the tray as she raises her eyes to Flynn. "Is that something you want to do?" she asks.

Flynn grimaces. "It's what you're supposed to do, right? When somebody dies."

"Only if you want to remember them," Skyler murmurs, her voice chilled.

"What if I don't… wanna remember him?"

Skyler shrugs nonchalantly and picks up her cigarette once more. "Then we won't have one."

"Does that make us bad people?" Flynn asks.

Skyler exhales a stream of smoke, her gaze fixed on the newspaper and its detailed reports of Heisenberg's crimes. Drugs, theft, murder: those things make a bad person. Being an accessory, too. But she can't say for sure whether it's right or wrong to forget the dead who've hurt them so much in life. She hasn't even wept for him yet.

The back door opens again and Marie pokes her head out, Holly squirming in her arms. "Flynn, your ride's here," she announces.

"Okay." Flynn lingers another moment by Skyler's side, wavering on his next words before he settles on: "See you later, mom. I love you."

"Love you, too," Skyler whispers to him. She watches him as he goes, still wondering about the answer to his question.

Once they're alone, Marie approaches Skyler with hesitant steps. She doesn't want to get too close to the smoky air with the toddler in her arms. A frown touches her lips when she glances down at the newspaper. Unlike Skyler, she prefers not to look at them. "We should get going, too," she says.

Skyler crushes her cigarette into the tray and finishes off her coffee. It's gone cold. Her eyes pass over Jesse Pinkman's face one last time as she rises to her feet. With not a moment to linger on it, only two words beneath the photo seize her attention: **WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN**.  
  


###### 

  
Trimming his beard with scissors is a tedious task. Jesse leans closer to the shard of broken glass he's using as a mirror, trying to catch some of the morning light that's coming in through the window so that his reflection will shine a little brighter. He's only half-finished, but he's already looking less like Charlie Manson, so that's a start. The beard makes a good disguise, but not when it's so wild that it draws attention. After all, the old man back at Richardson's could tell right away that something wasn't right.

Grooming isn't exactly urgent business, but he can't let himself fall asleep and the only way to ensure that he doesn't is to keep focused on a task. They'd gone as far as they could under the cover of night, but when Saul began nodding off at the wheel and the pale light of dawn flooded the desert, it was time to pull off the highway. An abandoned chapel in the ghost town of Newkirk made as good a shelter as any they were likely to find, so Jesse placed a phone call from the nearby gas station and they settled in for the day.

There's something almost too peaceful about it. The way the sunlight streams through the cracks in the walls, illuminating the dust in golden streaks, makes it seem like the church was almost meant to be this way: half-wild and reclaimed by the earth, in holy communion with God or Mother Nature or whatever. The air has a sweet perfume to it and it's just slightly too warm, intoxicating. Jesse's arms feel heavier where it touches his skin and it slows his work. His hands shake with weariness, making it all the more difficult to operate the scissors he holds.

Soon, he won't be able to keep up his vigil, despite his best efforts. He hardly slept last night before his encounter with Saul. His adrenaline wore off ages ago and left him even more drained.

Saul stirs in his pew on the other side of the room, clothes rustling as he rolls onto his side. He can hardly get to sleep on a lumpy motel mattress, let alone a hard slab of wood, but he somehow managed to catch about an hour of shut-eye before the sun came beaming into his eyes. He emits an unhappy grunt and sits up with some effort, his spine popping and cracking. First order of business when he gets back to Albuquerque: give Kim Nu Suong a call and get himself re-aligned.

He smoothes his hair down as he looks all around for his captor. He'd expect Jesse to be asleep, too, but he spots the kid crouched by what was once probably a majestic stained glass window. It's nothing but a gaping hole now, open to the desert.

He squints when he realizes what Jesse's doing. "I get that beauty's important, but dontcha think sleep's the number one priority right now? We've still got a whole lotta miles to go."

"I'll sleep after they get here," Jesse says, glancing over to Saul. His eyes are sunken and ringed in red, but Saul can't honestly tell if he looks worse than he did last night or if this is Jesse's new standard. "Can't have you running off while I'm out cold."

"I'm not going anywhere," Saul scoffs with a shake of his head, his shoulders slumped. "The last thing I wanna worry about for the rest of my life is you hunting me down. I'll get you where you need to go."

Jesse's lip twitches. "Yeah, well. We'll see about that." He turns back to his makeshift mirror, snipping off another erratic chunk of beard.

"I've got trimmers in my kit, you know. This all could wait until we're back in the twenty-first century. Hell of a lot simpler with electricity. You'd be _amazed_ what advances have been made in the male grooming department since the days of yore."

"I'm almost done."

Saul sinks back against his pew, going silent again as he watches Jesse, then drops his gaze to the wooden boards that litter the floor. It would probably be pretty easy to overpower Jesse right now. He might even be able to come up from behind and hit him over the head. The kid must be so tired. Would he even be able to react?

His thoughts go back to the previous night and he immediately decides against it. Jesse's obviously half-mad, and as rabid dogs do, his strength is doubled when he's in battle. Saul can't risk it. Better to wait.

Jesse puts the scissors down for a moment and brushes some of the trimmings from his shirt. He turns his head from side to side, examining his reflection from a few angles. Well, he can even it out later if he needs to. It's better than it was, at least.

He leans forward and picks up the scissors again to begin trimming his hair. He's got bangs now, and they're so long they're hanging into his eyes. It's annoying.

The scuff of a footstep behind him sends Jesse whirling around, scissors drawn and ready to stab. They miss Saul by about an inch and he throws his hands into the air. "Whoa, there! Try not to take my eye out with those things. Didn't they teach you anything in kindergarten?"

" _Jesus_ ," Jesse hisses. "What're you doing sneaking up on me?"

"I wasn't _sneaking_ , I was _approaching_. But point taken. I'll be louder next time." Saul gestures to the scissors. "It'll go a lot quicker if I do that for you."

Jesse gives him a wary look in response.

Saul chuckles. "Okay, do I look like the kinda guy who's gonna shank you with a pair of scissors? You remember who you're talking to, right? Look, maybe I'm not Paul Labrecque but I'm pretty good at trimming hair. Ease up a little."

"Who the hell's Paul Labrecque?" Jesse mutters as he passes the scissors over, still watching Saul as if he expects the blades to be lodged in his throat any second now.

Saul merely takes them in hand and parts Jesse's hair to begin cutting it. "Don't worry about it. Stupid joke."

Jesse frowns, sinking down a bit to make it easier for Saul to see what he's doing. Todd had occasionally trimmed his hair back at the compound—before their falling out—and without thinking, Jesse settles down the same as if it was Todd handling him now. He never wanted to move too suddenly when blades were involved in their interactions.

Saul finds Jesse's hair several inches longer than he's ever seen it. It's greasy, too, and smells like actual shit, as if the kid's been sleeping in a barn or a sewer. He kind of hates touching it, enough that he's having trouble hiding the disgust on his face, but hair-cutting is an important male bonding ritual that will hopefully endear him to Jesse… at least enough so that the kid will hesitate to violently murder him. "How short do you want it?" he asks.

"Just get it outta my eyes."

"Shucks, I can do better than that." Saul starts snipping away, doing his best to turn the mess into something more human. He tries not to look at the scars on Jesse's face as they become clearer in the daylight. Something mutilated him, and he bets there's a good chance it was Jesse himself who did the deed. Saul guesses it might have been an attempt to disguise himself—and an ill-advised one, if so, because they only make him more distinctive.

But there is also the chance that someone else did this to Jesse. And he doesn't want to think about that.  
  


###### 

  
"What about this one?" Badger asks, holding up a box of Revlon Luxurious Colorsilk in Blue Black. "It's kinda black, but it's kinda blue. That'd look pretty cool, right?" He gives a flourish, as if he's a gameshow host or acting in an infomercial.

To Skinny Pete, however, Badger looks like a complete idiot. "No way, man. It's supposed to look _natural_. You think blue is gonna look natural on him?"

"I dunno. Maybe." Badger turns the box over, examining the photos of the dye over different shades of blonde.

"What about red?" Pete suggests as he picks up a box of Feria.

"Yo, he'd look like a leprechaun," Badger laughs.

"But he's kinda got freckles, right?" Pete points out. "So it'd look real and shit."

Badger picks up a couple more boxes, weighing them in his hands as if that'll help the two of them decide. "Maybe we should just get a bunch of 'em and let him choose."

"Aight," Pete agrees, holding out the shopping basket for Badger to deposit the boxes. "But I bet he'll pick the red."

With the hair dye taken care of, Badger pulls out the list of other supplies Jesse had requested over the phone: several gallon jugs of water, canned food, granola bars, paper towels, soap… "This stuff's so weird," Badger remarks. "What's he doing? Like going on a camping trip or something?"

"He _told_ you," Pete hisses in a whisper between clenched teeth, looking all around to make sure no one's listening to them. "He's gotta lay low now that the heat's up."

"Yeah, but like… A hotel's gonna have soap and water, you know? Why can't he just go there?"

"You're such an idiot," Pete sighs. He snatches the list from Badger's hand and gives him the basket to carry, instead.

"Heyyy," Badger whines. He swats at Pete in an ineffective attempt to grab the paper back before something else draws his attention: Doritos are on sale.

Skinny Pete grabs him by the hoodie and tugs him away from the display. "Come on. He's waiting for us. Let's hurry up and get this shit."

Badger rolls his eyes dramatically. "God, _fine_."  
  


###### 

  
"Looks good, right?" Saul asks as he steps back, giving Jesse some space to examine himself in their substitute mirror.

Jesse's eyes remain on the scissors in Saul's hand a moment longer before he finally looks away. He gives his reflection a cursory glance, less interested in the result than he was in the process. His hair is a few inches shorter, a bit less wild, and that's all he really cares about. The only thing he needs to do is pass for an ordinary citizen and not a fugitive. Given the state of his face, looking _good_ is out of the question. Probably for the rest of his life.

The rustling of grass outside the chapel catches his ear. Saul hears it, too, and both of them turn their wide eyes toward the entrance.

Someone on the other side taps on the door three times before pushing it open, just as instructed. It's a bit of a struggle with the hinges rusted. It takes both Skinny Pete and Badger pushing together to get the gap wide enough that they can finally squeeze in.

"Jesse?" Badger whispers, blinded by a shaft of light pouring through one of the cracks in the ceiling.

"Over here," Jesse says. He shuffles forward, away from the vicinity of the window and into the shadows rather than out of them. The better for his condition to be obscured. "You get everything I asked for?"

Pete struggles to push the door closed behind him, then holds up a duffel bag. "It's all in here, yo."

Jesse nods, though they can barely see it. "Nobody followed you?"

"Out here? Road's empty for miles both ways. We woulda seen anybody coming."

"Hello to you, too, by the way," Badger remarks, squinting into the dark to try to get a look at Jesse.

"Sorry," Jesse whispers as he ducks down to grab the duffel from Pete's hands. "Hi."

"You gonna let us in on what's going on?" Pete asks, a bit less forceful than Badger.

It's Saul's turn to step out from around the corner. "You know, this might be one of those don't-ask, don't-tell situations. Legally speaking. Maintain a little plausible deniability."

"Holy shit," Badger gasps, a wide grin spreading over his face. "Is that _Saul Goodman?_ "

"Nice to see you again, Brandon," Saul says with an uncomfortable smile and a half-hearted wave. "But I'm not here and you never saw me."

While the others are chatting, Jesse rifles through the contents of the duffel bag. When he finds not one but four different boxes of hair dye, he looks up at Skinny Pete and Badger. "You didn't have to buy the whole store."

"Thought you could use a little variety," Pete explains with a shrug.

"Whatever." Jesse tears open a box of dark brown dye and starts preparing the mixture on the spot, right there on the floor of the chapel.

"Wait, you're doing it _now?_ " Badger asks, his face screwed up in confusion. "Don't you need a sink or something to rinse that shit out?"

"You brought the water, right?"

Both Pete and Badger look to Saul for some kind of guidance, to which Saul shrugs. "He's not fond of hotel rooms. Believe me, I tried."

That seems to remind Jesse. "Make sure he doesn't go anywhere," he orders Pete and Badger.

They exchange an uncertain look. They're getting the feeling this is all heavier than they expected when they got Jesse's call.

"You guys didn't happen to bring a bottle of scotch, did you?" Saul asks with a short laugh, a feeble attempt to break the tension.  
  


###### 

  
Marie half-stumbles out of the morgue, nearly falling to her knees before Skyler catches her. Older sister supporting the younger, she turns with a wail to sob into Skyler's shoulder. Skyler's own face is frozen into a mask of horror as she strokes Marie's hair, her movements automatic. Mechanical. She knew this would be a bad idea, and it was. For the both of them. Marie had been searching for closure, but now she'll always be haunted by the nightmare of Hank's final hour.

"Let's get some air," Skyler whispers when she's gathered her bearings, and Marie nods into the crook of her neck.

Instead of going out the side door like last time, they take the elevator up to the roof, where no one is bound to interrupt them. There, Marie's legs finally give out and she collapses against the tar rooftop. "That monster," she chokes out, her hand clutching at her mouth. She feels like she's going to be sick. She can't get the image of Hank's decomposing body out of her mind and she's searching for something—anything—to replace it. When she tries to remember the day they met or their wedding, her thoughts go instead to that final phone call and her mind's eye lingers on the corpse that was dumped into a hole in the desert on that same day. How could Walt have done something like that to him? To his own family?

Wordlessly, Skyler places a hand on Marie's shoulder and kneels down beside her. It's windy at the top of the building and the gusts carry Marie's cries away from them, scattering her tears and tossing her hair.

After she's caught her breath and her awareness catches up with her, she turns to Skyler. "I'm sorry."

Skyler shakes her head. "No. You're right. He was a monster."

That permission opens the floodgates to Marie's darker feelings "I can't even kill him," she hisses, to herself more than to her sister. "The bastard's already dead. I can't even..."

Skyler nods in sympathy, brushing Marie's hair out of her face. "I know."

Marie turns her bright, tearful eyes up to Skyler, suddenly looking lost instead of angry. As if she's found herself wandering in a dangerous place without a compass. "What are we supposed to do now? There's no justice, is there? He got away with it. He got away with all of it and he died with a smile on his face. All the rest of this... This investigation… It's just a sham, isn't it?"

Skyler drops her gaze, unable to find a word of reassurance for Marie. It's true. Walt and his accomplices are dead and gone, where justice and the law will never lay a hand on them. Skyler is the only one left to face the consequences of everything that happened.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse dumps the water over his head with one hand while scrubbing with the other, the dye running down his neck and shoulders despite the way he's bent over. It leaves a puddle of brownish suds on the floor all around him.

"Dude, it's getting all over your shirt," Badger unhelpfully points out from his seat on one of the pews.

"Gotta ditch the shirt anyway," Jesse mutters. "It's got Saul's blood on it."

Another uneasy glance passes between Pete and Badger before they both look to Saul. They're not totally sure about it, but it's occurring to them that they might be helping the wrong person in this situation.

Saul lifts his eyebrows and gives them a lopsided smile. "Kid's nothing if not careful," he quips good-naturedly. It helps his harmless image, especially since his face looks like someone gave it an unwarranted beating.

Once Jesse's used all the water, he tugs his shirt up over his head to scrub the moisture out of his hair and beard. He's dyed both, so they're now a dark brown hue instead of dirty blonde. The sun's left him pretty tanned, too. Together, he doubts he resembles the kid whose photos are being circulated in the news.

"Jesus..." Pete whispers behind him.

Jesse glances over his shoulder, and he realizes what's got Pete's attention: the scars and tattoos marring his back, ugly evidence of the violence he's experienced for the past six months. His face looks like he's been in a bad fight, but the rest of his body—with the red stripes of lashes and puckered burn marks—makes it clear that he's been tortured. Thoroughly. Over and over.

He shrinks back self-consciously, trying to hide as much of his torso as he can manage with his sopping shirt. "You guys brought me something to wear, right?"

"Yeah," Badger says distantly, mouth slightly agape. "Um... A few things."

Pete scrambles to his feet to bring Jesse a new shirt. He has the presence of mind to pick a black one, since that's less likely to stain from the dye that's still running down Jesse's neck. "Here," he says as he hands it over, his expression somber. He can't help but stare at one particularly large swastika tattooed across Jesse's ribcage.

"Thanks," Jesse mutters. He discards the old shirt and tugs the new one over his head, finally concealing the hateful markings from all three spectators.

Badger sits forward, looking as distraught as Jesse's ever seen him. "Jesse, man... What happened to you?"

"Don't worry about it," Jesse replies, his tone snappish but quiet.

"I gotta say, I _am_ worried," Pete pipes up. "I thought it was the cops you were running from, but if it's some Aryan gang shit..."

Jesse shakes his head slowly, dismissing the concern. "They're dead now." He meets Pete's eyes and holds his stare. "They're all dead."

"Wait—" Badger jumps to his feet. "That thing on the news yesterday. Where they found Heisenberg and all those guys... Was that _you?_ "

Jesse drops his eyes to the floor, his expression grim, but he doesn't contradict the assumption. He hasn't allowed himself to linger on the maelstrom of violence that was his rescue, and especially not on the identity of his rescuer.

"...You killed Heisenberg?" Skinny Pete utters in an awed breath.

Before Jesse can respond, a scraping sound draws the attention of all three back toward the entrance. Someone's opening the door again... from the inside.

Saul.

"Grab him," Jesse orders Badger, who's the closest to the vestibule.

Saul casts a frightened glance back to them. He's got barely enough room to squeeze out the door, but he manages, and tumbles face-first into the dirt before scrambling to his feet again and making a break for the car. The keys are already in his hand, snatched out of the pocket of Jesse's jacket while he was busy dyeing his hair.

He's at the station wagon by the time Badger comes lumbering up behind him. The big guy tackles him, throwing both of them to the ground, and the keys fly from Saul's hand and into the dried grasses several feet away. "Got him!" Badger shouts back toward the chapel.

A second later, Pete and Jesse appear beside them. Badger and Pete both look to Jesse, uncertain of what to do next. Neither of them particularly wants to beat up a helpless, unarmed lawyer, but they're beginning to doubt that Jesse will give them a choice in the matter.

"Don't kill me!" Saul sputters from his place in the dirt.

"Christ, Saul," Jesse sighs, swiping a hand over his forehead.

"You're _not_ gonna kill him... right?" Badger doesn't look so sure, but he's still not letting go of the guy.

Jesse looks between the three of them—all eyes on him, all wide with fear as they take in his battle scars—and he realizes that they're three ordinary people who've never once had to actually make the choice to take a life. He's looking at a lawyer and his childhood friends. _They're_ looking at a fugitive with blood on his hands. And they all think he'll actually do it again.

He takes a step back. "I didn't kill Heisenberg."

Their expressions shift to confusion. If Jesse didn't, then who did?

Jesse doesn't answer that unspoken question. Instead, he looks to Saul. "Nothing's gonna happen to you, alright? But I can't let you go. Not yet."

"Jesse…" Saul begins to plead.

"I need you, okay?" And he's loath to admit it, the words bitten between his teeth. "Skinny and Badger can't get me past border patrol. They can't hook me up with passport. All that stuff… That's what _you do_. And it's what you _have_ to do. If I end up in jail, you're coming with me. So you'd better be with me on this."

Pete bends to pick up Saul's keys and brings them over to Jesse. "We're in this with you as far as you wanna take it, brother. Ain't asking no more questions."

"Yeah," Badger agrees sullenly. "Same."

Saul's face falls. He'd obviously been hoping to win those two over to his side. "You're really just gonna hold me hostage 'til this is over? What if it turns out I can't help you? Because believe me, Jesse, it won't be a cakewalk getting you outta the country."

"I know," Jesse says to Saul. "But I'll do whatever it takes. And so will you. 'cause neither of us wants to end up in a cage."

Saul scowls up at him. "Then we can't stay here. If we're gonna make contact with my guy, we gotta get to civilization. Because if we keep living like animals out here, taking showers with buckets of rainwater and sleeping in the dirt, we'll just attract more attention when we poke our heads out for our meet-up, and he won't like that." He picks his chin up a little, his tone taking on a lecturing quality, "Not to mention, you _still_ haven't slept. Not to get too critical here, but sooner or later, that's gonna affect your logic. Now's not the time to get sloppy."

"Alright already," Jesse replies irritably, waving a hand to silence him. "I'll ride with Skinny and get some sleep. Badger'll take you. Just tell me what direction we oughta be heading."

"West," Saul answers.

"Back to the ABQ?" Badger asks, befuddled. Isn't that the opposite of where they want to go?

Saul shakes his head. "Just until 84. Then we'll take a turn up for Santa Fe, head north. Nobody'll be looking for you heading north. The assumption will be you're going straight to Mexico. We'll circumvent any checkpoints they're setting up."

Impressed, Pete remarks, "No wonder you need this guy."

"Just don't listen to too much of whatever else he's got to say," Jesse warns Badger. "He's gonna try to weasel his way outta this, but believe me, he deserves everything he's getting."

Badger climbs to his feet, dragging Saul up with him. He keeps his hands firmly planted on Saul's shoulders. "Don't worry, Jesse. You can totally count on me."

"And you both got your burners, so we can keep up a line of communication?"

Skinny Pete and Badger nod.

"Alright." Jesse claps his hands together. "Let's pack our shit up and get moving."  
  


###### 

  
When Skyler returns from the bathroom with Holly in her arms, she discovers Marie still sitting at the booth with her hands folded and her head bowed. The plate of food in front of her has gone untouched. "Sweetie," Skyler says as she sinks into her seat across the table, "you need to eat."

The waitress appears a moment later, giving a concerned glance to Marie's mascara-streaked face before addressing Skyler, "Is everything alright here?"

"Just take this away," Marie says with an impatient wave toward her plate.

"Would you please wrap it for her?" Skyler asks the waitress with a polite smile.

"Sure," the waitress replies with a practiced, cheerful smile of her own and carries Marie's plate off, leaving the sisters alone again.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Marie whispers as she swipes her palm across her eyes.

"I know." With her free hand, Skyler reaches across the table to grasp Marie's arm in support.

"Auntie Marie?" Holly asks, looking anxious, and outstretches her arm in an attempt to mimic her mother's movement.

Marie looks up at her and forces a smile. "I'm okay, baby girl." She meets Holly halfway, giving that tiny hand a squeeze.

"Why don't you take Holly home?" Skyler says to Marie. "I can handle this next meeting on my own."

Marie scoffs. "Oh, sure. You and that two-bit public defender against a room full of DEA agents and their entire army of suits. No way. We talked about this, Skyler. I'm sticking with you through this whole thing. I just need to freshen my makeup and I'll be good to go."

Skyler nods. She's not wholly convinced that it's the best idea, but she can understand Marie's desire, after everything she just saw, to stay close to family instead of returning to that empty house. They don't expect Flynn home tonight. Even with Holly, the silence could be oppressive.

Thinking of Marie's home brings Skyler's thoughts back to the morning paper. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets it out, the waitress returns with the styrofoam box of Marie's food. "Can I get anything else for you ladies?" she asks, again directing the question mostly to Skyler.

"No, thank you. Just the check."

The waitress hurries off again and Skyler turns back to her sister. "Poor girl probably thinks I'm a lunatic," Marie mutters to herself.

"Marie," Skyler begins, hesitant and serious. "I have something to ask you. And you don't… You don't have to answer me right now, if it's too much. But I thought of something this morning and it's been eating at me."

Marie's eyes widen. With a preface like that, her attention has been successfully captured. "What is it?"

"It's about Jesse Pinkman."

The name alone etches lines of worry across Marie's face. "What about Jesse Pinkman?"

"When you mentioned he was helping Hank with the investigation... You said he was with Hank and Steve that day, didn't you?"

Marie nods slowly.

"But they didn't find his body in that grave."

"Maybe he... Maybe he ran away before the shooting began," Marie says. She prays that he did. She'd never thought much of Pinkman, but she remembers the harrowed look in his eyes when they finally came face-to-face. He was a boy who'd lost everything to Walt, who earnestly wanted to take that monster down, and he didn't deserve to meet a bloody death in the desert.

"Or maybe," Skyler utters gravely, "he and Walt planned the entire ambush together."

What little color remained in Marie's face drains at that suggestion. "A trick? You're... You're saying maybe it was a trick all along? All of his cooperation?" A second later, she pushes the doubt from her mind with a firm shake of her head. "No. No, he couldn't have been lying. You should have seen his face, Skyler. He was clearly terrified of Walt."

"So was I," Skyler retorts, "but that didn't stop me from acting as his accomplice."

"Keep your voice down!" Marie hisses, glancing around. "You know the boys from the Bureau eat here all the time!"

Skyler ignores the warning, pressing on: "They still haven't found him. Not in the desert and not at the site of the shootout. So where is he, Marie?"

"Long gone, I hope," Marie says. "Skyler, if you'd have seen him, you know there's no reason to be worried about him. There's _no_ way he was working with Walt."

"He's out there," Skyler utters. "Walt's men already broke into our home once to keep me quiet. What if Pinkman comes back? What if he comes back to silence me for good? The kids—"

"Sky..." Marie interjects softly. "No one's coming for you and the kids. It's all over now."

Skyler shakes her head and draws Holly closer to her heart. "Nothing is _over_ as long as he's out there."

"He's probably _not_ out there. He's probably long dead. And if he isn't, he's still not a threat to you or our family."

"If he isn't a threat, then why did he try to burn our house down in the first place?"

Marie's gaze flits to Holly before turning to the window. "I... I don't know. It just doesn't feel right. You're jumping to a lot of conclusions here."

"I know it isn't easy," Skyler murmurs, sitting forward. "He was one of Hank's only allies in this fight. If he really was a witness, if he really died by Hank's side, he'd be a hero in your eyes. I understand that. But he didn't, did he? At best, he abandoned Hank. And at worst..."

Marie presses her lips into a thin line. "I would've seen it. If it was a trick. I would've seen it in his eyes."

"How could you have possibly?" Skyler replies sensibly. "When it took so long to figure Walt out, how could you have seen it in a stranger? Don't blame yourself for missing something like this."

The waitress arrives with the tab, leaving the check in front of Skyler. "All set."

Marie snaps her credit card on top of the bill before Skyler can make a move. "It's on me."

"Marie—"

Marie directs a tight smile to the waitress. "Thank you." The waitress smiles uneasily in response and steps away to process the card. Marie turns back to Skyler, immediately returning to the topic at hand: "So is this your little pitch for the meeting? 'Hey, Ramey. I know you just wrapped up a million-dollar manhunt, but maybe you guys oughta consider another one even though I don't have a single lead to give you?' I don't think you'll be winning any favors from the prosecution with that one."

"I don't know," Skyler confesses. "I don't know what to do. All I know is that I can't stop thinking about it."

Marie frowns. She probably won't be able to stop thinking about it, either, now that Skyler's planted the seed of doubt in her mind. After a moment's consideration, she asks, "You really think he helped them kill Hank and Steve?"

"I don't see how it could've gone any other way," Skyler answers, her face drawn.

Marie wipes at her mascara-stained cheeks once more before picking her chin up and folding her hands. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. Don't bring it up in front of the lawyers. I'll pull Ramey aside after the meeting. That way, if something goes wrong—if his stupid man-ego can't take it or whatever—you both save face. Even if he doesn't like being told what to do with this investigation, he can't lose his temper with me. And if he does think your theory's plausible, then we can start working in your favors _after_ he's already on board."

Skyler nods, her shoulders dropping a little. "Thank you, Marie. I know it's a lot to ask of you right now."

"Hey, I don't want to see my big sister go to prison. I'll do whatever it takes." She drops her gaze to her hands, adjusting the wedding ring on her finger. "Besides... If you're right about Pinkman, then I want to see him taken down just as much as you do."

She watches the way the sun rays streaming through the window hit the diamond on her ring, sending scattered beams of light across the tabletop. Hank took that boy into their home when he had nowhere else to go, when doing the right thing and putting him in a cell would have guaranteed his murder. Could Pinkman have really betrayed them? Was really there something she missed in his eyes that morning they first met, frozen and staring across the hall at one another like two frightened animals encountering each other in the jungle, trying to figure out if the other one is a threat?

Maybe it wasn't fright that she saw there. Maybe it was guilt.


	3. Route 54

The mid-afternoon sun beats down upon the dusty plains of Quay County, its heat tempered only by the high winds sweeping down the hills into the valley. The dead grasses along the highway whip violently back and forth, parting now and then to reveal a glint of metal reflecting the sun's rays that flickers as a bright beacon amid a landscape of endless dirt and asphalt.

A patrol car pulls off the highway, drawn by that beacon, and rolls to a stop along the shoulder. The officer inside squints through her windshield at the half-obscured object before her, searching for signs of movement beyond the grasses. When she decides she's alone, she steps out and adjusts the gun at her hip. She likely won't be needing it, but it reassures her all the same.

She takes cautious steps forward, keeping her eyes peeled for any threats, until she comes to a stop in front of the wall of grass. As soon as she brushes it aside, the cargo bed of a black vehicle reveals itself before her. Judging from the amount of dust built up back there and behind the wheels, it's been sitting in this patch of wilderness for at least a day or two. A glance through the rear window tells her there's no one inside, but she circles the car all the same to check for the presence of its driver.

When she finds none, she takes down the license plate number on her notepad and marches back to her patrol car.

Five minutes later, a phone rings halfway across the state, at the Albuquerque DEA headquarters. "Van Oster here," the sleepy-eyed agent answers at his desk.

His partner, Agent Hoffman, leans over on his elbows and watches Van Oster with interest. Now that their investigation is wrapping up, both of them have had very little to do beyond paperwork. And neither of them has been particularly enthralled by the paperwork.

This day, from the look on Van Oster's face, is about to get much more exciting. With just a few words from whoever else is on the line, his expression goes from bored to riveted. Astounded, even. By the end of it, he blurts hastily into the receiver, "Yes, thank you. We'll be right over to pick it up."

"What is it?" Hoffman asks.

Van Oster splays his hand across his forehead after hanging up the phone. He can hardly believe it. "Highway Patrol found Alquist's car in a ditch off 40, out near Montoya."

"What the hell?" Hoffman replies, brow furrowed in bewilderment. "But Alquist was dead at the scene. What's his car doing a hundred fifty miles away?"

Van Oster lets out a short laugh. "I'm thinking we might just have our shooter's escape vehicle here."

They let that sink in for a second, then both simultaneously jump to their feet and grab their jackets off the back of their chairs. They rush down the hall as fast as they can go without breaking into a run and come to a halt outside the first meeting room. Ramey instructed the team that this meeting was not to be disrupted except in case of an emergency, and they both hesitate at the door because neither of them wants to be the one to interrupt. Hoffman looks to Van Oster and Van Oster looks to Hoffman. This _is_ an emergency, right? Their suspect might even still be in the state.

Van Oster gives in first, turning to knock on the door.

Another agent opens up on the other side, but it's Ramey who turns in his seat to address them with a stern look: "We're in a meeting."

Van Oster glances past Ramey to where Marie Schrader and Skyler White are seated. He gives them an apologetic grimace before imploring of Ramey, "A word, sir. It's urgent."

Ramey turns to the sisters and their lawyer. "Sorry about this," he says, more to Marie than to Skyler. "The calamities of being short-handed in the middle of a firestorm. I won't be more than a minute."

Skyler nods, secretly grateful for the break in the proceedings. The room erupts into murmurs the moment Ramey is out the door, as the DEA's lawyers all take the opportunity to confer amongst themselves. Skyler shuts her eyes, weariness drawn into the lines of her face.

She's brought back to the room by Marie's whisper in her ear: "Van Oster and Hoffman were assigned to the investigation of the superlab. You know, where..."

Skyler's weary eyes shift to Marie. Yes, where Walt died. She knows.

Marie presses quietly, "It sounds like they got something, don't you think?"

Skyler surreptitiously mouths back, "Pinkman?"

Marie nods. She seems sure of it, her chin rising a bit as she sits back in her chair. Her attention turns to the door and she eagerly awaits Ramey's return.

In contrast, Skyler sits forward and brings her hands together in supplication to whatever God may be. She prays they've found Jesse Pinkman—dead or alive.  
  


###### 

  
As Jesse and Badger load the last of the luggage into the trunk of the station wagon, Saul calls back to them from the passenger seat, "Hey, is _this_ really necessary?" He holds up his wrists, tied several times over with twine.

"It wasn't," Jesse answers dully, "'til you tried to run away."

Saul scowls at him and sinks back in his seat with his shoulders hunched, making a show of being more uncomfortable than he is.

Badger shifts from one foot to the other, looking from Saul to Jesse. "Anything left inside the church?"

"Nah. That's all of it." Jesse casts one last mistrustful glance in Saul's direction and lowers his voice a bit. "Remember what I said before."

"I got this, bro," Badger reassures Jesse with a grin. "He's just a lawyer. What's he gonna do? Beat me with his tie? I got like fifty pounds on him, _at least_."

"He's smart," Jesse reminds him. "Really smart. And he's a liar."

Badger gives a dismissive wave of his hand, unconcerned. "No matter what he says, I'm just driving from Point A to Point B."

Jesse nods. "Skinny leads, you follow. If there's trouble, you flash your headlights. And stay far enough behind us that if we do—I'm not saying we will, but if we do—get pulled over, the cops won't think we're together."

"Got it." Badger's eyes pause briefly on Jesse's face, and Jesse can tell he's looking at the scars. "You're really a pro at this now, huh."

With a shake of his head, Jesse replies, "I'm just starting to figure it out."

"We all set to go?" Skinny Pete calls over from his car.

"Yeah," Jesse calls back. His lips twitch into a weak smile and he gives Badger a pat on the back before turning to walk towards the Thunderbird. "See you on the flip side."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Badger salutes him, slams the trunk shut, and rounds to the driver's side of Saul's station wagon. As he settles into his seat, he finds Saul still sulking. It reminds him to turn on the child safety locks.

"Seriously?" Saul sighs. "You think I'm gonna jump out of a moving car?"

Badger shrugs and starts the engine. "I dunno. Maybe."

"I'm not _suicidal_."

Badger glances over to Pete's car, but the Thunderbird hasn't started moving yet, so he turns to face Saul. "Look, man, why don't you just take a nap or something? It'll be dinnertime before you know it."

"How am I supposed to get any sleep with my hands tied like this?" Again, he raises his bound arms and gives Badger an accusing stare. "I can't even feel my fingers anymore. They're all pins and needles."

"Oh my God," Badger sighs. "I used to think you were such a badass. Like when I got arrested, how you handed those cops their asses? And now it's like... Are you really gonna be whining the whole way? 'cause you're totally ruining your image."

"Kid," Saul begins slowly, drawing out his words so that Badger's tiny brain can process them, "I don't care if your new image of me is somewhere between Steve Buscemi and Fran Drescher. If you want peace and quiet during our little road trip, then untie this shit. Pronto. I mean, you already locked me in here. What's the worst that could happen?"

Up ahead, the Thunderbird starts to pull off the grass and out into the dirt road. Badger appears to debate himself very quickly before he reaches across to the passenger's side and loosens the knot of twine. It's enough that Saul gets his wrists free by the time Badger's hands return to the steering wheel.

"Thank you," Saul huffs, rubbing gingerly at his reddened skin.

"Don't tell Jesse I did that," Badger says as he steers the car onto the road to follow after Pete.

Saul scoffs. "You're joking, right?" He relaxes back, reclining the seat so that he's in a more comfortable napping position, and turns his back to his companion. Instead of closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep, however, he stares out the window at the desert landscape and works on planning his next course of action.  
  


###### 

  
"We'll see you again next Tuesday," Ramey says to Skyler, concluding the discussion while he shuffles his papers and rises from his seat. "As always, thank you for your cooperation." There's a dry quality to his words that makes it clear he doesn't think she's being very cooperative at all. With Heisenberg dead, he'd expected some of her fear to give way, for her to open up about the details of their operation. But that hasn't happened and his patience is running thin.

He steps out of the meeting room, followed closely by Marie, who manages to squeeze out before the long line of lawyers. "Ramey? Can I bend your ear for a second?"

Ramey schools the irritation out of his face before he turns around to face her. "My hands are tied here, Mrs. Schrader," he says, preempting whatever her request might be. "It's up to your sister, not me, to earn favors from the prosecution."

"No, no," Marie assures him. "This isn't about that. This is about, um…" She looks all around and leans in closer to whisper, "Jesse Pinkman."

Ramey's eyebrows lift a touch. That's a different story. "You have information about Jesse Pinkman?"

"Well, no…" Marie wrings her hands. "Actually, I was hoping _you_ might."

"Jesse Pinkman has been missing and presumed dead for six months," Ramey replies, his agitation returning. "You know that already." After all, she'd been the one to inform the DEA about Pinkman's last known whereabouts.

Disappointment flits across Marie's face and her shoulders drop an inch. "So… Van Oster and Hoffman… When they came in earlier, it wasn't about that?"

"Why would you think that had something to do with Jesse Pinkman?" Ramey asks with increasing suspicion.

"I wondered if you found his body." Marie's gaze drops to her hands. To her wedding ring. "Since you found Hank and Steve…"

He thinks he's beginning to understand. "I'm sorry, Marie," he says, his voice gentler, his tone less formal. "There haven't been any new developments in the murder investigation and at this point I don't think it's realistic to expect more answers. We've combed through everything."

Marie shakes her head. "But he could still be out there, right?"

"Who?"

"Pinkman."

Ramey takes a step back and frowns. "Six months without a trace? Not a single sighting in all that time? It's a big desert out there, Marie. I know you think he can provide some insight into what happened that day, but you'll have to accept that Pinkman's dead, even if we never locate a body."

"Don't you think you should at least _try?_ "

Ramey's face hardens at that insinuation. "I'm sorry you're under the impression we _haven't_ been trying."

"I didn't mean it like that, I just—"

"This department doesn't have the resources to keep a search going indefinitely," he continues, lecturing now as if she's a child. "There are a lot of bad people to catch out there and we have to focus on the ones who are still breathing and doing harm in the present."

"I know, but—"

"Now, if you ever do come across some new information, we'd be grateful to hear it. If Pinkman ever makes contact with you—or your sister—we'd most certainly want to know about it immediately. Until then, I have more pressing matters to see to. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Schrader." He doesn't wait for her leave, turning his back to her and walking away without a chance for her to get another word in.

"Jerk," Marie mutters under her breath once he's out of earshot, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"What do we do now?" Skyler asks softly from behind her.

Marie hadn't even noticed her approach. She jumps a little and veers to face her sister. "I don't know. We'll think of something. In the meantime, you and the kids can keep staying at my place."

Skyler nods grimly and continues on down the hall, heading for the secretary's desk, where they'd left Holly with a few of the girls. Although all three ladies are overjoyed to keep the toddler company, they're less happy to see her mother. Their smiles lose some of their pleasantness when they look up to find Skyler's arrived.

"Does she really have to go?" the youngest lady asks in a whine, a strained attempt to be playful.

Skyler smiles with taut politeness. "Mmhmm. Afraid so."

"She'll be back in a few days," Marie assures them. As if it's a playdate and not Skyler's ongoing battle for her freedom.

While the ladies say their goodbyes to the baby, Skyler and Marie wait patiently by the sidelines, too worn out to push them to hurry up. Their attention is drawn away from the gaggle, however, by two agents on the other side of the wall partition. They're speaking too loudly, as men often do, and the sisters begin listening when they hear the names Hoffman and Van Oster.

"...gonna be out for the rest of the day," says the first agent.

"Lucky bastards," says the second. "I wouldn't mind a night out in Tucumcari. Beats all this grunt work."

"You kidding me? Four or five hours crossing the desert there and back just to pick up Alquist's car? I would've made 'em tow it here. We're the DEA. They should be coming to _us_."

"Hey, if you're that excited about sticking around the office all night, you could take over my desk and I'll duck out early for a beer…"

Skyler and Marie both turn to each other, eyes wide in unspoken communication. Todd Alquist. They know the name. He was ones of those dead on the scene where Walt was found. If his car's been abandoned all the way out near Tucumcari, does that mean...?  
  


###### 

  
The late-summer desert is a wash of bright yellows with very little to break up or soften its glare beneath the clear blue sky. Even with his eyes shut, light floods Jesse's vision. From time to time, he drifts to sleep despite that, lulled by the warmth on his skin and the hum of the familiar car. Skinny Pete's Thunderbird is a relic from his old life, and if he forgets himself in his drowsy state, then he almost feels safe in there. His mind can almost believe it's like a thousand other car rides they've taken together over the years.

But he never stays unconscious for very long. Fifteen or twenty minutes pass and then something—a bump in the road or a swerve of the wheel—reminds Jesse's brain that it's dangerous to let his guard down, and he opens his eyes to stare out at the sand once more.

When it happens for the fifth time, Pete glances over at him and states the obvious: "Can't sleep, huh?"

"I'm fine," Jesse mutters, pulling his baseball cap forward to shield his eyes a bit.

"Well, long as you're awake," Pete says, returning his eyes to the road, "you mind if I say something?"

"Be my guest."

"You don't gotta worry about me and Badger rolling on you," Skinny Pete begins tentatively, as if he expects his words might anger Jesse. "I mean, if that's what's keeping you up. I ain't driving you to no police station. Or anywhere else you might be scared about. 'cause we been through some shit, you know? All of us. Together. And from the looks of you—I mean, no offense, but—from the looks of you, maybe you shoulda asked our help sooner. You know what I'm saying? If you needed our help, we woulda been there."

Jesse looks at him, his brow drawn in consideration. He doesn't doubt Badger and Skinny Pete's loyalty, of course, or he never would have called them in the first place. But he does doubt their abilities. "You couldn'ta helped me," he says finally. "Where I was. Nobody coulda helped me."

Except one person.

Jesse shakes the image of that man from his mind, looking to the desert again.

"Where were you, Jesse?" Pete asks, hesitant to pry. Afraid of the answer, maybe.

"You guys said you saw the news," Jesse murmurs vaguely in answer.

"That, uh, that superlab thing?" Pete replies, his face all twisted up in confusion. "I thought you said that wasn't you."

"I said I didn't kill him," Jesse corrects. "I didn't say I wasn't there."

"So what happened?"

"Remember when I told you guys I was going to Alaska?" Jesse smiles wryly, a heat coming to his eyes at the memory of that fleeting promise of a new life somewhere far away. "I never made it. Heisenberg, he—well, him and Saul did something. I couldn't let it go. But I made a mistake. His cronies—those guys they found dead with him—he sold me out to those guys. They were supposed to kill me." He swallows. "But they didn't."

Pete glances at him again, his features now lined with concern. "What'd they do?"

Jesse clears his throat. "Doesn't matter. I couldn't leave. Couldn't call anybody. I was just trapped. 'til Heisenberg showed up outta nowhere and killed 'em all."

Pete's silent for a moment, lost in his own troubled thoughts. Finally, he decides to voice them: "We saw him. The day before it happened. He called us up and had us do something for him."

That news drops a cold pit straight to Jesse's stomach. "...What?"

"It was weird. He wanted us to mess with some rich people. I dunno. But afterwards, he asked about you. Asked if your meth was still on the streets. Asked if we knew where you were. I gotta say, Jesse, I didn't think he'd be coming to rescue you. He sounded, like, mad about it." Realizing how that sounds, Pete rushes to reassure him, "We never woulda helped him if we knew he tried to kill you and stuff. Swear to God."

"No, I know." But the revelation leaves him shaken. It'd been Mr. White's intention to kill him with the rest of them. He's absolutely sure of that. The knowledge that he was alive and cooking Blue Sky would have sent Mr. White into a rage. "Where was he? Did he say? Did he say where he was all that time?"

Pete shakes his head. "Nah. He didn't say much. But it seemed like it was news to him, the Blue still being on the streets. All that time, we'd figured it was him cooking it. But when we told him it was still out there, that's when he put it together: it was you."

Mr. White must have been in hiding. Somewhere remote, if he hadn't even heard that Blue Sky's production was going strong for a whole six months after his retirement. And yet, Jesse can't decide whether that makes it forgivable. That it took him so long to show up at the compound. That son of a bitch should have come for him months earlier. Jesse would have rather died within the first two weeks, in time to spare Andrea, than survive half a year later all thanks to some… What was it? Pity? Was that what made Mr. White spare him?

He scrubs at his face with his palm and sinks lower in his seat. 

"You okay, Jesse?" Pete asks.

Jesse pulls his cap down over his eyes. "I'm gonna try to get some more sleep."

He doesn't want to think about this anymore.  
  


###### 

  
Marie's indigo Volkswagen pulls up into the driveway of her home. As she shifts into park and turns the engine off, she casts a glance at her sister, who's staring out the passenger side window with the distant gaze of someone looking inward. "Hey," she says gently. "Try not to worry about this too much, okay? You're safe here."

Skyler nods mutely.

Marie nods in response, convincing herself as much as her sister, and pushes her door open. She reaches into the back to begin freeing Holly from her child seat, and all the while Skyler makes no move to exit the vehicle. It's only once Marie has Holly in her arms that Skyler murmurs, "What if we just go?"

"What?" Marie ducks down to look at her. "What're you talking about?"

Skyler turns to face Marie. "What if we drive out to Tucumcari and take a look around?"

"What, _now?_ " It's already so late in the day. She was just about to start cooking dinner. "What do you even think we'll find out there?"

Skyler holds up a hand. "Hear me out," she says. "If he was driving that car and if it broke down, isn't there a good chance he's traveling by foot? Or camping out in one of those ghost towns off Old 66? Even if he's gone by now, we might find evidence he was there. That he's still alive."

"This is crazy," Marie replies, hugging Holly closer to her chest and covering the baby's ears. As if she doesn't want the girl to hear her mother speaking so irrationally. "He's _not_ alive, Skyler. I mean—there's no point. If he was alive yesterday, he's probably not alive now. It's the middle of the desert. There's _nothing_ out there."

"Alright," Skyler concedes, unfastening her seatbelt at last. "I'll go by myself. You stay here with Holly."

" _No!_ " Marie objects shrilly, startling Holly so much that the baby's lip starts to quiver. Realizing her mistake, she strokes Holly's hair and lowers her voice. "I can't let you do that."

Skyler leans over, fixing a determined gaze on her sister. "It's just a drive, Marie. I'll be back before midnight. Only a few hours on the road to put my mind at ease. What's the harm in that? Hmm? If you really don't think I'll find anything out there, then what could possibly go wrong?"

"Really? After everything that's happened, you're gonna throw 'what could possibly go wrong' at me? What if you go poking around those old ruins and run into someone else from that gang? What if there's more than one of them? What if the whole place is crawling with hobos and junkies and illegals?" Marie huffs and bends down to hand Holly over. "Forget it. We're coming with you. Because I know you won't do anything _stupid_ with Holly in the car."

Alarmed, Skyler draws Holly into her arms. "Marie—"

"Put her back in her seat. I have to grab something from the house." She marches off to the garage before Skyler can protest.

Skyler's finished buckling Holly into her seat when Marie returns. She straightens up and looks over just in time to watch Marie toss a pistol into the glove compartment, and her mouth drops open in dismay. "Since when do you carry a gun?"

"Are you joking right now?" Marie asks, throwing a sharp look at her sister. "I'd be stupid _not_ to carry one. You should get one, too. The only reason it wasn't in my purse already is because it's a hassle to deal with the metal detectors at headquarters."

"We're not going to need a gun," Skyler insists.

"You do what you have to do to put your mind at ease and I'll do what I have to do," Marie snaps back, standing next to the driver's side with her arms folded across her chest. "Now, are we all set to go?"  
  


###### 

  
"Hey," Badger says, glancing over to Saul, "long as you're awake, you got any CDs or an iPod or something? It's, like, way too quiet in here."

"I got nothing," Saul replies. "Unless you're a big fan of Donna Summer or the Bee Gees."

"Gross. Disco."

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

Badger sighs and returns his attention to the road. The sun's dipping low on the horizon now, low enough to get all in his eyes even with the shield flipped down. He wishes he'd brought sunglasses. Honestly, it hadn't even occurred to him that he might be stuck driving. "We're stopping for food soon, right?"

"Couple more miles," Saul assures him, resting his cheek in his palm. "In Santa Rosa. You won't miss it. It's the only living town on the whole damn highway before we hit 84. And there's only one decent restaurant in it."

"No wonder we never drove out this way," Badger mutters.

Saul emits a rancorous laugh. "Yeah. Whole lotta nothing." If the circumstances were different—if he was on his way back to Albuquerque, for instance—Saul might actually be happy to see this particular stretch of nothing. It's a familiar nothing to him, unlike the wheat fields of Nebraska. Unfortunately, instead of coming home, he's only passing through. The sight of these rocky hills and sandy valleys fills him with nothing but anxiety and a longing for what might have been. God, Francesca must be sick with worry by now.

To fill the silence that's bothering Badger so much, Saul asks, "Jesse ever tell you how he convinced me to take your case way back when?"

"Uh…" Badger screws up his eyes. Is that a trick question? "He paid you extra… right?"

Saul lets out another laugh. "Nope! He kidnapped me."

Badger looks at him, brow crinkled. "Seriously?"

"Yup. Threw a bag over my head, drove me outta town, put a gun to my head and told me I had to take the case or he'd leave me in a shallow grave out there."

Badger's initial reaction is to laugh in disbelief. But then he glances at Saul again and considers the situation they're currently in. Maybe it's really not so funny.

"I mean, it worked out perfectly for you," Saul says, tipping his head in Badger's direction. "My service never disappoints."

"Yeah, man. Thanks for that." Badger sounds uncomfortable, though.

"Don't get me wrong, Brandon. I don't blame you for that whole debacle. Or for this one. Jesse doesn't leave people a whole lotta options, does he? When it comes to _any_ of his harebrained schemes."

Badger feels the need to come to his friend's defense, however flimsy. "Well, I mean, but he's gonna let you go once you help him get to Mexico or whatever."

"Kid, I was a good lawyer. _Was_ a good lawyer. But I'm retired now. And even back when I was a good lawyer, I was no miracle worker. Getting Mr. America's-Most-Wanted off to balmy Cancún or Costa Rica? Not gonna happen." Saul gives Badger a wry smile. "I hope you got a strong stomach, 'cause he'll probably ask you to get rid of my body for him once he's figured out I'm no use."

Badger bristles at that last statement. "So you're saying I should, what, cut the lights and pop off the next exit before they notice I'm not following anymore?"

Saul beams at him. "Hey, look at that. I knew you were a bright kid."

"Gimme a break," Badger sneers with a shake of his head. "Man, did you seriously think I was gonna fall for that? Jesse's like my best friend, yo. We're mad tight. I'm not just gonna ditch him when he's in like the deepest shit of his whole life."

Saul tosses his hands up in defeat. "Alright, but don't say I didn't try throwing you a paddle once you're drowning in his shit."

They reach the crest of a hill and suddenly the town of Santa Rosa appears before them in a wash of flashy signs illuminating a valley already dipped in darkness. Badger's grateful when they make their descent and the sun disappears behind the mountains, no longer forcing him to squint against its light.

As planned earlier, the Thunderbird ahead turns into the lot of the Comet Drive-In and the station wagon follows at a distance, parking off the street rather than in the lot itself. It's a precaution, Jesse had said over and over, to make sure no one can tell the two vehicles are traveling together.

Badger hops out of the car the moment it's parked, slamming the door behind him without a glance back. He's just happy to finally stretch his legs. Saul, meanwhile, remains in his seat and ducks down to make sure the kid's back stays turned. Then he makes a grab for the burner that was left sitting in the drink holder and deftly pockets it before climbing out of the station wagon himself.

"Hurry up, man," Badger calls back to him, already a few feet ahead and totally unawares. "I'm freakin' starving."

Saul quickens his pace to catch up to the group reuniting beneath the overhang of the now-defunct drive-in area of the so-called Drive-In. Business apparently dried up a long time ago, leaving little demand for outdoor service. They're the only ones standing in the lot at what should be peak dining hours.

Jesse gives Saul a suspicious look as soon as he approaches, which Saul meets with a deferential bow of his head. Despite that, Jesse remains uneasy. "Skinny and I will go in and order," he says, addressing Saul and Badger both. "You two can wait out here and be on the lookout for cops."

"Oh, whoa," Saul protests, holding up one finger. "Unless you want poor Brandon here to spend the rest of this drive with one hell of a mess on his hands, I need a bathroom like a half hour ago. My IBS strongly objects to these stressful situations. My bowels have reached critical mass."

All three boys wrinkle their noses in disgust. Too much information. "Jesus, fine," Jesse says, waving him along. "Go… shit your heart out."

"I don't have to go in there with him, do I?" Badger asks, a bit green in the face.

"Just watch the door," Jesse tells him brusquely.

Saul does a ridiculous hobbling jog all the way into the restaurant and straight to the restroom. He gives up the act only once he's shut and locked the door behind him. Wasting no time, he turns the faucet on for ambient noise and walks to the far end of the bathroom, where Badger will be less likely to hear him if he's got an ear pressed to the door. Not that Saul expects that to happen, given the story he just sold them.

He leans up against the wall to catch his breath, then pulls out Badger's cell phone. It takes him a second to remember the number before he dials and holds it to his ear. When someone on the other end picks up, he puts a smile on his face so it'll be audible in his voice, "Hey, buddy! It's your old pal, Jimmy."

There's a pause while he listens both to the voice on the other end and for any commotion out in the restaurant. So far, so good. Badger has proven to be the least effective guard that Jesse could have possibly appointed.

"Oh, yeah, I'm great," Saul answers the man on the line, lying through his teeth and doing it with ease. "Listen, I'm kinda pressed for time. I just had a quick question for ya. What's the going price for Jesse Pinkman's head these days?"

He clears his throat and clarifies, "Alive. Yeah."

When he gets his answer, he nearly drops the phone into the toilet, and fumbles for a cool response, "—Yeah. Yeah, I can bring him to you. So that makes it fifty-fifty, right?" He bites on his knuckle to suppress his excitement, giving the door another look while his heart soars with elation. That's a higher number than he expected. Much higher. His bad luck has suddenly had quite a turnaround.

He's saved.  
  


###### 

  
Holly's fussing in the back seat gives way to outright wailing. Skyler turns to stroke her hair and shush her tenderly, all to no avail. "I think she needs a change," she tells Marie. "Do you think we'll run into a gas station anytime soon?"

Marie squints at the glow in the sky over the next hill. "I think there's a town up ahead," she says. Then she makes a face. "I'll try to find somewhere cleaner than a gas station, though. God, I wouldn't let my precious little niece anywhere near those trucker disease factories."

"The closest place you can find," Skyler sighs, reaching back again to comfort Holly.

They turn into the parking lot of the first open restaurant they come across, a Mexican diner that does at least look significantly cleaner and more family-friendly than a gas station. "I'll take care of it," Marie says once she's turned the engine off, climbing out of the car and reaching to pick up Holly and her diaper bag. She pokes her head back down to ask Skyler, "You want me to grab you a drink or anything? I'm parched."

"Coffee," Skyler answers. "If they have it."

Holly gives another impatient whine, and Marie shuts the door and hurries off into the restaurant. Skyler watches them go, then sits back in her seat. After a moment of contemplation, she pulls out her cell phone and dials Flynn's number. It goes straight to voicemail, as it usually does when she's the one calling, so she waits until the tone and leaves a message: "Hi, sweetie. I know you said you're spending the night at Louis's, but I just wanted to let you know that Aunt Marie and I will be out late tonight. I, um… I didn't want you to worry, in case you came home to an empty house. Anyway, have fun with your friend. Try not to get into too much trouble. I love you."

She hangs up with a soft sigh and tucks her phone back into her purse. Another moment passes before she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She has a few minutes to get away with smoking before Marie catches her at it and gives her a lecture. She's going to make the most of the opportunity.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse waits by the side door, idly turning the cigarette between his fingers and watching the smoke swirl in blue patterns beneath the neon signage. When a car whizzes by on the street, he glances up to peek out from under his baseball cap and check that it's not a patrol car. It isn't. In relief, he brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a drag.

The door beside him opens and out comes Skinny Pete a handful of takeout bags. "Finally!" he declares. "Time to get our food on."

"We'll eat on the road," Jesse tells him. "Saul and Badger still inside?"

"Nah," Pete answers. "They're waiting back in the wagon."

"Go drop off their stuff. I'm almost done with this." He raises his cigarette. "I'll meet you back at the car."

"Sure thing." Jesse deserves to have a moment of peace with his smoke, after all. Skinny Pete gives him a lopsided smile and heads for the street where Saul's car is waiting.

Left alone with his thoughts once more, Jesse tips his head back and inhales a deep lungful of tobacco, his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to believe that he's safe now and wills his body to believe it, too. But his nerves refuse. He's disguised, out in the middle of nowhere, supported by his long-time friends, and he still can't shake his body's intuition that his enemies are just around the corner.

When he's finished, he lets the cigarette slip from his fingers with a scatter of orange sparks in midair, crushing its remains against the cement beneath his sneaker. A furtive glance around tells him the coast is still clear. It might be that a town like this doesn't have police at all. That would be some luck.

Jesse steps around the side of the building, heading back to the parking lot that was formerly the drive-in. Pete's already back in the car, he can see, because the Thunderbird's lights are on and its engine is running. There's another car parked in the space just across from it, which would make Jesse nervous except that it's a purplish-blue Beetle, and he's never seen a cop drive one of those, even incognito. Anyway, there's a blonde woman leaning up against the passenger door, dressed all in beige. Definitely a mom, not a uniform.

She turns to look at him as he passes under the fluorescent light of the overhang, her eyes attracted by the movement. She's waiting for someone, obviously, but not him.

Still, her eyes remain fixed on him long after she should have looked away. And as he draws closer to the car, he realizes why.

That's Mrs. White.

His feet slow to a complete stop. He freezes there, staring at her from just a few yards away, his heart in his throat. She might not have recognized him if he hadn't recognized her first, but there they are, standing still in shock at the sight of one another, and she certainly knows who he is now. He can see it in her eyes, in her disbelief and in her quiet terror.

Jesse moves first, raising a finger to his lips, signalling for her to keep her silence and not scream. Then he turns, throws open the door to the Thunderbird, and disappears inside.

The car peals out of the parking lot a moment later, Skyler staring after it in open-mouthed horror. Her neglected cigarette has burned down to her fingers but she fails to notice, all of her attention fixed on the Thunderbird's distinctive tail lights as it speeds off down the highway.


	4. Route 84

Marie bends down to offer the straw of her drink to Holly, who beams up at her with a delighted giggle and grasps for it. It takes some maneuvering before she finally gets it in her mouth for a sip, and when she manages it, she looks immensely proud of herself.

"How do you like that, sweetie?" Marie asks her.

"Yum!" Holly replies, smacking her lips.

"That's called _horchata_ ," Marie explains to her. "Can you say 'horchata'?"

"Hachacha!" Holly attempts enthusiastically.

The man behind the counter laughs as he hands over Marie's change. "It's very good," he tells her. "Your daughter is beautiful _and_ smart."

"Oh, she's my niece," Marie corrects him. "But she is smart, isn't she? We're trying to teach her English and Spanish at the same time. I think it's good for her, you know? Kids today aren't very culturally educated, and I read it's best to start early when it comes to foreign languages."

"It's true," agrees the man at the register with a nod. "So young, they repeat everything they hear. Easy to remember all the words. Not like old man, forgetting everything."

"Don't be silly," Marie chides. "Your English is perfect."

The man dips his head in thanks. "You have a good night, girls."

Marie scoops up Holly and balances the drink tray in her other hand, an expert at juggling items by now. "Say 'adiós', Holly."

" _Adiós_ ," Holly echoes, waving shyly to the man.

Completely charmed, the man lets out another laugh and waves back to her.

Careful to keep from spilling their drinks, Marie nudges the door open with her hip and she and Holly emerge into the parking lot. Her eyes are on her tray as she walks, so it isn't until she's about halfway through the lot that she realizes the car isn't where she thought it was. She turns, scanning the other spaces for her familiar indigo Beetle, but it's nowhere to be seen.

Was there another lot on the other side of the building? Did she get turned around? Marie looks over her shoulder and realizes that, no, this really is the right lot. It's got the overhang in the center, where the drive-in used to be. And with the neon lights glaring, there's no way she's somehow overlooking her car. It wasn't parked in the shadows. It was _right here_.

Marie sets the drinks down on the hood of the nearest vehicle and goes searching, weaving between the spots as her heart begins to race. Where is the car? It has to be here somewhere. Skyler wouldn't just leave them. Skyler wouldn't run away from her daughter, her son, her sister.

If she's gone, something terrible must have happened to her. Sometime unimaginable. Tears blur Marie's vision and even Holly notices, asking in a perturbed way, "Auntie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," Marie assures her in a choked whisper, wiping at her eyes. She comes to the empty spot where her car had been parked and her gaze settles on an object right in the middle of it.

It's Skyler's cell phone.

Marie swallows and inches forward, reaching for it with a trembling hand. When she flips it open, there's an unsent text message waiting for her to find. It reads simply: **I FOUND HIM.**

Sucking in a sharp breath, Marie sweeps her gaze over the lot one more time, as if expecting someone to leap out at her. But she and Holly are alone, with only this clue from Skyler: _Him_. Jesse Pinkman, she must mean. It doesn't seem possible, and Marie begins to wonder if Skyler hasn't altogether lost her mind with the stress of everything that's going on. If Jesse Pinkman was just here, and if Skyler has driven off with him, then they couldn't have gone very far. Marie could call the State Police right away and have them in custody within the hour, safe and sound.

Her fingers have already begin to dial 9-1-1, but she hesitates on that last 1. If she goes to the police, then she's condemning Skyler. Without question. Ramey's all too eager to put her away, and if it looks like Skyler's on the run with Pinkman in tow, then what? What's everyone going to think?

On the other hand, if she doesn't call, then one or both of them could end up dead. Skyler isn't thinking clearly. And Pinkman is a fugitive, possibly violent and definitely unstable.

"Oh God," Marie whispers as another realization hits her. "My gun." Her gun is in the glove compartment. What if Skyler tries to use it? What if the police find Skyler with gun in hand? _Shoot to kill_ , that would be the order they'd give.

Marie snaps the cell phone shut and draws Holly closer, hugging her tightly. She doesn't know what to do. What is she supposed to do?  
  


###### 

  
"Take a deep breath, kid," Saul says, his voice crackling over speaker phone.

Jesse twists his face up and massages his forehead with his fingertips. _Take a deep breath?_ That's Saul's advice? "I don't think you're hearing me, Saul," Jesse growls behind clenched teeth. "She _saw_ me. I mean, she looked straight at me. She knew exactly who I was."

"Peter?" Saul asks patiently. "Did you see her?"

Skinny Pete glances aside to Jesse before answering in all honesty, "Nah, but I wasn't really looking. I mean, I was messing with the stereo 'til Jesse jumped in and told me to hit the gas. And once that happened, I didn't stop to take in the scenery, you know what I'm saying?"

"Maybe it wasn't her," Badger suggests over the phone. "I mean, it's dark out, right? It coulda been any blonde lady."

"It wasn't any blonde lady," Jesse answers with unflinching certainty. "It was her."

Saul clucks his tongue. "Well, here's the good news: she obviously didn't call the cops. It's been a half hour. If there was an APB out on Peter's license plate, a trooper would've stopped you by now. Trust me, they'd have every car in the state out for a call about Jesse Pinkman."

"Great," Jesse mutters.

"It _is_ great, actually," Saul says. "Look, you're still in the clear. She's probably back there asking herself if she was just seeing things. I mean, Jesse—you don't exactly look like the same kid she saw almost a year ago. Maybe for a second, it was like she'd seen a ghost, but… That's it. She probably convinced herself she'd be crazy to call the cavalry over some hillbilly trucker who kind-of maybe looked like somebody she used to know."

"So that's it, then?" Jesse asks incredulously. "We just keep going, like nothing happened?"

"You got a better idea?"

Mike would say that letting a witness live is just like begging to get caught. Saul doesn't say it aloud, but Jesse senses the same suggestion hidden in his tone.

"...No." Jesse tugs his hat down over his eyes, exhaling a tremulous breath.

"Then we'll see you at the hotel."  
  


###### 

  
Tracking the car was easy, even with their half-minute lead time. It took her less than ten seconds to leave the message for Marie, and the keys were already in the ignition. On the long stretch of road leading back to the Interstate, she could still see the Thunderbird's tail lights even several cars ahead. They might have lost her if they were speeding, but they weren't. Of course they weren't. They couldn't risk getting pulled over for a speeding ticket with Jesse Pinkman in the car.

Skyler maintains that distance, enough cars between them to keep them from spotting her but not so many that she loses sight of them. As distinctive as the Thunderbird is, Marie's Beetle is even more conspicuous. She can't let them figure out that she's following, or else they might do something drastic. In her mind, she can see a scenario where they squeeze her off the road and into a desert ditch. Nothing seems entirely impossible. Jesse Pinkman, she imagines, is a very desperate man right now.

When 84 branches north, the Thunderbird goes with it, so Skyler takes the same exit. It's a strange route to have taken. East to Tucumcari, then back in the direction of Albuquerque, and now north—to Santa Fe, no doubt. It's the scenic route, but that makes it the safer choice if, for example, they were being tailed. As the hour gets late and their location more remote, the highway clears out. Soon there's only one car between them, and Skyler has to put more distance between herself and Pinkman, in case he's looking for her.

A glance at the clock tells her it's been more than an hour since she left Marie and Holly stranded at the Comet Drive-In. She feels sick with guilt, knowing what panic Marie must be feeling, but that guilt is tempered by the relief she feels whenever she looks up to find Pinkman still in front of her. As long as she has eyes on him, she knows he can't hurt her family.

Besides, Marie will find a way home, and the children will always be safe with her. No matter what happens to Skyler.

Eventually the lights of the city break through the darkness of the desert hills and Skyler knows they're coming upon Santa Fe. She anticipates their exit, and sure enough, the Thunderbird turns off the highway and heads for downtown.

Skyler has more than a passing familiarity with Santa Fe. She went to college up here and lived in the area for years following, right up until she met Walt at a diner where she worked part-time as a hostess, back when he was a researcher at Los Alamos. A strange sensation overcomes her as she drives these streets, feeling suddenly as if no time has passed at all. Things have certainly changed in the almost twenty years since then, but Santa Fe is an old city, preserved in time. She could navigate it in her sleep.

When the Thunderbird turns to enter the parking garage of the La Fonda Hotel, Skyler knows she can go no further by car. It's too secluded. The Beetle will stick out like a sore thumb to anyone who's looking for it. So she hastily parks on a side street and gathers up her purse. As she's about to step out of the car, her eyes fall upon the glove compartment. She hesitates, then flips it open and grabs Marie's pistol, shoving it into her bag.

Once she's locked the car, she makes a break for the hotel at top speed, hoping to catch sight of Pinkman before he's moved on to his second location—be that a room or a different car. She slows her pace as she comes upon the parking garage, ducking behind an archway to cover her as she scans the area.

Luck is with her. Pinkman's standing by the back door to the hotel, smoking a cigarette with two other boys who look close to his age. Friends of his, no doubt. One of them probably the driver.

She's acutely aware of the gun in her purse. If those boys weren't there, she could take the shot. In the cover of darkness, no one else in the garage, she could fire off two or three bullets at least before tossing the gun. If she walked away calmly, slowly, and kept her face from being seen, no one would even suspect her. No one suspects a blonde, middle-aged woman as the shooter in a random slaying.

She's thought about this kind of scenario more than anyone should ever have to.

But she doesn't think she can kill three of them that neatly, especially when they all might be armed as well. If she's going to get Pinkman for good, she'll have to get him alone.  
  


###### 

  
"It's kinda taking him a while, isn't it?" Skinny Pete says, shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

"Shouldn'ta left him alone," Jesse mutters. He brings the cigarette to his lips again, his fingers shaking as he takes a drag. "Probably making a run for it."

"Nah, I can see him from here," Badger assures him. The glass door gives him a good view of the hall by the laundry room, where Saul is engaged in what looks like a pleasant conversation with a woman wearing a yellow dress suit. She's laughing and touching his mustache. "Dude, this chick's totally into him."

Jesse doesn't appear comforted. His eyes sweep the parking lot, searching for signs of a SWAT team or a patrol car.

"It's cool, man," Pete tells him. "If this goes south, we'll just get in my car and barrel outta here."

Badger jumps. "Oh! He's waving us in! I think the coast is clear, yo."

Jesse sucks at his cigarette one last time before dropping it onto the asphalt, then follows Badger and Skinny Pete into the hotel. The woman—their host, apparently—gives Jesse a smile so warm that he's taken aback by it. "Welcome to the La Fonda," she says sweetly. "It's so nice to finally meet Saul's nephews. I always told him he should bring family by for a visit."

"Aw, you know how it is between me and my brother," Saul says with a nervous laugh.

"Yeah," Badger pipes up exactly as they rehearsed in the car. "Dad pretty much hates him."

"Totally," Skinny affirms with a nod. "The worst kinda sibling rivalry."

"But we love our old Uncle Saul." Badger claps a hand on Saul's shoulder for good measure.

Jesse nods mutely, his head bowed so that the bill of his cap keeps most of his face obscured from view.

"Well, I think the boys are all pretty road-weary," Saul sighs. "We oughta hit the hay."

"Of course," the woman giggles, handing over an envelope of key cards. "We'll catch up at breakfast."

Saul winks at her. "You're a doll."

Once she's out of sight, he leads them up the backstairs rather than the main elevator, taking shortcuts through halls with an ease that tells Jesse he's spent a lot of nights at this particular hotel. They come to a stop at a suite on the uppermost floor, a room that seems more like it should be reserved for special guests than a dirty group of criminals. He sees the dubious looks on their faces as he unlocks the door, explaining with a single word: "Celebrity."

The room is gorgeous inside, styled the way it must have looked almost a hundred years ago, going back to the Old West, with adobe walls and wood-beamed cathedral ceiling and two king-size beds that look more comfortable than anything Jesse has seen in his entire life. He stands at the doorway as if he isn't sure he's in the right place, as if he's afraid he's not supposed to be here.

Saul catches that look on his face and pats him on the arm. "Relax, kid. We're good here. For tonight, at least."

Jesse nods, though the uncertainty doesn't leave his face. He sets his bag down at the foot of the bed and murmurs, "I'm gonna take a shower." The look he gives Skinny Pete and Badger carries an unspoken order: _Watch him._  
  


###### 

  
The screen on the back of the seat in front of her lights up with a fare of $256.91. Marie hardly thinks about the cost, mindlessly swiping her credit card and signing off a larger-than-necessary tip. Her mind is elsewhere, across the desert to wherever Skyler might be.

"Thank you very much," says the taxi driver upon receiving that exorbitant payment, but Marie only nods curtly in response and climbs out of the cab with Holly in tow. The house is dark, which means Flynn, as he'd mentioned would likely be the case, never came home for the night. That's for the better. Marie has no idea how she'll explain his mother's absence in the morning.

She unlocks the front door with a passcode from her cell phone, one of numerous security upgrades she made to the house after that break-in following Hank's disappearance. And thank God for it, because Skyler has her house keys.

"Mommy?" Holly mumbles, half-asleep against Marie's collarbone.

"It's just you and me tonight, baby girl," Marie coos, but she has a sick feeling this might become a permanent arrangement. Skyler ran off. On purpose. Something Marie had assured everyone her sister would never do.

Maybe in reality it had nothing to do with Pinkman. All those paranoid fears of his return. Maybe Skyler's mind was simply looking for any excuse to get out of Albuquerque, away from the looming trials and the weekly scrutiny down at the DEA headquarters. How much can Marie really blame her for trying to escape it all?

She pauses halfway down the corridor, her eyes settling on a hanging photo of herself and her sister in their teenage years, at summer camp up in Colorado Springs. Maybe Skyler just needed to get away for a little while, a vacation far from any of it. "Come home soon," she implores the blonde girl in the photograph.

Holly hums something that sounds like an agreement.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse steps out of the bathroom after about an hour, having taken advantage of pretty much every modern luxury now available to him. The dirt and blood has been thoroughly scrubbed from his body. His muscles and joints have lost some of their tension after soaking in a hot bath. His artificially-darkened beard is more neatly trimmed. Even his pajamas—an old Primus t-shirt from Badger and slightly oversized flannel pants—feel soft and cozy and warm.

He could fall asleep standing up, at this point.

All three of them stop talking when he enters the room, looking at him with the same mixture of concern and disquiet that's been there since their reunion in the ghost town's chapel. "Relax," he assures them. "I didn't slit my wrists."

"We were just worried you passed out in the tub," Pete says.

"Close to it." Jesse sinks onto the edge of the nearest bed and looks to Saul. "So what's the plan now?"

Saul scoffs. "The plan is: I take a shower and we all get some sleep."

"Who's keeping watch?" Jesse asks.

"Watch?" Saul replies, brow furrowing in a show of bewilderment. "What for?"

Jesse gives him a withering look. Really? Does he need to keep explaining that Saul has in no way earned anyone's trust? He's tired, not braindead.

"I can do it," Badger offers. "I had like three Red Bulls earlier. I'm pretty wired."

Saul puts his hands up in surrender. "Whatever the chief wants."

"What about in the morning?" Jesse asks. "What're we gonna do then?"

"Gorge ourselves on a free continental breakfast and hit the road before my ladyfriend stops by to try and get to know my handsome nephews. The sooner we're outta this state, the better."

Jesse's instinct is to argue that they should leave before dawn, then. Clean up, close their eyes for a few minutes, and get back on the road. But his body's at a breaking point. Whether he likes it or not, he'll soon fall unconscious. And the idea of sleeping a full night in a real bed is too much for him to give up when it's right here.

Apparently Saul can read his mind, or at least read the look in his eyes, because he promises Jesse, "It's gonna be fine. Get some rest. Running won't do you any good if you die of exhaustion first."

Jesse mumbles something that might be a protest, but he lies back and burrows under the covers anyway. His friends are here to look out for him. If he'll ever get a chance to rest, this is it.  
  


###### 

  
When he opens his eyes, the sun is filtering in through the door that leads out to the balcony and there's a bustle of activity around the table across the room. Saul and Badger busy themselves arranging plates atop it as quietly as they can, and Jesse can smell the aroma of fresh eggs and bacon and waffles and fruit wafting over from those plates. His stomach growls in response. As with everything in this over-the-top hotel, the food seems like something too good to be true.

He rubs at his eyes and sits up slowly, glancing over to the other bed, where Skinny Pete's still asleep. Yesterday had been a long day for all of them. Jesse leaves him be and turns to the other two. "Is there coffee?" he whispers.

Saul looks over his shoulder and beams, grabbing a thermos from the middle of the table. "I wasn't sure how you liked it, so I left it black," he tells Jesse as he hands it over.

"Black's good." Jesse holds the thermos between his hands, warming them for a moment and breathing in the coffee's aroma. He has to savor this. He has to savor everything before it goes away again.

The next few minutes pass in silence as Badger loads up a plate for him and he eats what he's given. He has to pace himself so he doesn't get sick, but everything tastes as good as it smells. In this extravagant room, sitting on this cushy bed, eating all this delicious food, he finally begins to feel the feral self he's been for the past six months fade into the background, replaced by something resembling human.

It's nice.

"...Oh, yo, is that bacon?" Skinny Pete mumbles hoarsely from the opposite bed, awake at last.

"Finally outta his coma," Badger laughs.

"Fresh bacon could wake me from the dead." Pete rolls out of bed and hobbles over to the table to fix his own plate.

Jesse looks between the two of them and smiles to himself before returning his attention to what's left of his meal.

Saul, already finished with his own breakfast, crosses to Jesse's side and takes a seat on the mattress. "Listen, Jesse," he says, his voice bordering on gentle, which signals bad news. "I don't wanna rush you outta here. Finish your food, get your strength up."

"But..?" Jesse replies. He can hear the _but_ coming.

"But I talked to a source of mine—"

"What?" Jesse interrupts sharply, looking to Badger. "You let him make a call?"

"Whoa, yo, I was with him the whole time," Badger counters. "Chill."

Saul continues, unfazed, "I talked to a source of mine, and the DEA found your prints. I mean everywhere. The lab, the site of that bloodbath, on that car you drove out to Tucumcari. They're onto you, kid. Bigtime."

It's not exactly unexpected. It was only a matter of time before all the forensics came back on that stuff. Jesse did what he could to wipe down the car, at least, but he wasn't thorough and he knows it. And obviously there was nothing he could do to scrub the lab clean of his presence. He was everywhere in that compound. That the DEA's caught onto him while he's still in New Mexico, however, might be a big problem for them.

And there's the matter of Skyler White.

Jesse puts his fork down and looks over to Badger and Skinny Pete. Saul follows his gaze and nods. "Yeah, you see where I'm going with this."

"What is it?" Badger asks, confused.

"If Mrs. White tells the cops about Skinny's car, that's where they'll be looking for me."

"So," Saul adds, "you gotta book it back to Albuquerque, ASAP, and come up with a good story for why you and your boyfriend were taking a scenic drive down America's Main Street last night. A story that doesn't involve running errands for your fugitive buddy."

"We can't ditch Jesse like that," Pete insists with a deep frown. "We promised we were in it to the end."

Jesse shakes his head slowly. "No," he murmurs. "Saul's right. You guys sticking around… It'll just lead the cops right to us. And make you guys accomplices."

Skinny Pete's not convinced. "Jesse…"

"Finish eating," Jesse orders, already back to picking at his eggs. "We oughta be outta here in the next half hour."  
  


###### 

  
When Skyler drives her brand-new rental car into the parking garage of the La Fonda, she's relieved to find the Thunderbird still in its spot. As she suspected, the boys must have decided to spend the night. She parks her own car in a position with a clear view of both the Thunderbird and the door they'd entered last night. Her best bet is to sit on the position until there's movement.

She'd drawn all of the money out of her checking account early this morning. It was a risky move, and one that would tell anyone who's looking for her where she went after she parted ways with Marie, but she doesn't intend to stick around long to be tracked down and she doesn't think Jesse Pinkman will, either. She picks up the envelope of cash sitting beside her and tucks it safely into her purse, next to the pistol.

She's ready.

A glance at the clock tells her it's a quarter past seven in the morning. Adrenaline kept her awake through the night and her weariness is now starting to take its toll. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looks terrible, eyes shadowed and complexion sallow. It works in her favor, she supposes. If she can hardly recognize herself, others probably won't recognize her at all.

She remembered to grab Marie's sunglasses before abandoning the Beetle outside Albertsons, too. She pulls them down over her eyes, a mask to further conceal the infamous Skyler White from the public eye.

Reaching for the cup of coffee beside her, she feels a funny and heartwringing sense of closeness to Hank. He'd described plenty of stakeouts to the family around the dinner table, and now here she is, following all of the advice he'd inadvertently bestowed upon her. Only instead of a police investigation, she's lying in wait to— 

She doesn't even know what she intends to do. Her mind comes to a screaming halt whenever she thinks about what will happen when she finally corners Pinkman alone.

One step at a time, she figures. She'll be lucky if she can even keep up the tail.

The back door to the hotel opens a few times, but none of the people moving in and out resemble the young men who were with Pinkman last night. Most are in uniform, employees of the hotel going on smoke break. Skyler's nearly nodded off when the clock reads 9:35, as finally three familiar figures emerge from the hotel in a close huddle.  
  


###### 

  
Skinny Pete turns on his heel to look at Jesse the moment they're in the parking garage. "You really sure about this?" Pete asks him. "I mean… You? Alone with him? Ain't you scared he'll roll on you soon as we're outta sight?"

Jesse shakes his head, dropping his gaze to the pavement. "Nah. If he was gonna sic the feds on me, he woulda made the call last night instead of booking us a room. He's in it. He knows he's screwed if they catch up to me."

Pete lifts his shoulders. "It still don't feel right. Something's eating at me."

"Don't be paranoid, man," Badger chides him. "Jesse's got enough to worry about without you tweaking out."

Badger's right. "Sorry," Pete murmurs.

"It's cool." Jesse looks up at the two of them, squinting against the lights. "Listen, remember to get your story straight about yesterday. If they pick you up, they'll probably grill you for as long as the law gives 'em. Stick to the script. Don't give 'em anything to hang you with. And don't forget to drive straight to the nearest car wash from here. Have 'em wipe down _everything_."

"Got it," Skinny Pete and Badger answer in unison.

"Sorry I got you guys mixed up in all this," Jesse says, his voice wavering for just a second. "But I really, um… Thanks. For helping me. I dunno what I woulda done without you."

"Shit, don't turn on the waterworks," Pete jokes with a light punch to Jesse's shoulder, but he looks a little misty-eyed himself.

"Take care of yourself, Jesse," Badger says, holding up a fist.

Jesse pounds it, and does the same with Skinny Pete. "Next time you guys hear from me, I'll be living it up on a beach in Brazil. Try not to get too jealous."

Badger grins and steps back. "Send us lots of photos of all the honeys."

"Yeah, you better," Pete agrees. "Peace, Jesse."

"Peace." Jesse lifts a hand to wave them off, and the moment they've turned to walk toward the Thunderbird, Jesse makes his own way to Saul's car. He's in more of a hurry than the other two, so he doesn't linger to watch them go. He backs the station wagon out and pulls around to the front entrance of the hotel, where Saul's waiting with their bags.

"Ready to say goodbye to the Land of Enchantment?" Saul asks him once he's climbed into the passenger seat.

"God, am I ever," Jesse sighs, turning the wheel to pull out onto the road, past the Plaza and back in the direction of the highway.

Santa Fe was a fitting place to spend his final night in New Mexico. The last time he was here was also the last time he was truly happy, before he lost Jane and the last shreds of goodness and innocence in his life. The landmarks he passes carry sweet memories instead of bitter ones, and that drives him forward.

All he has to do is make it to the border. He can do this.  
  


###### 

  
A station wagon, now. Skyler couldn't pull her car close enough to get a look at the new passenger, but it hardly matters. Probably just the owner of the vehicle, some other criminal connection of Pinkman's. From what she can tell, there's just the one, which makes better odds for her.

The station wagon, with its vintage wood paneling, is just as distinctive as the Thunderbird, and she has no trouble keeping eyes on it as it winds through the city streets before finally climbing onto the highway. Meanwhile, her silver Ford glides a few car-lengths behind, disappearing into the background even under broad daylight.

This must be what it feels like to be a lioness, blending into the savanna and stalking her prey unseen. Is that what she's doing? Are her intentions so violent, so calculated? Has she fallen so far?

She considers getting off at every exit she passes, but her hands refuse to turn the wheel. It's as if her body's decided she doesn't have a choice in this. She'll never rest if she turns back for Albuquerque now. She'll always wonder if he's out there, live in fear that someday he'll return. The smell of gasoline alone always brings him to her mind, makes her sick with terror.

Jesse Pinkman. If he'd been put down when she'd called for his death, then so much pain could have been avoided.

Her steely eyes remain almost unblinking and she never takes them off the station wagon. She's in pursuit. She's determined to end it. Her dead husband was weak and he sacrificed his own family for this boy and the filthy business they built together, for the thrill of it. If he could do it, she can do it: take a life, for good, and not evil.


	5. Route 550

Van Oster adds another pin to the board and takes a step back to admire his work. The corkboard is covered with photographs from the superlab and the surrounding compound—a place that was, as best they can tell, the center of a wide-reaching Neo-Nazi crime operation. The photos depict not only the superlab and the living quarters, but the blood-soaked floors of a tool shed that must have doubled as a torture chamber, a makeshift shooting range with a weapons stockpile, and an oubliette that looks to have recently housed a prisoner.

Hoffman steps up next to him, mouth full of breakfast croissant. "Can you believe this sick shit?" he muses between chews. "Fifteen years, I've never seen anything like this. Like the set of a horror movie."

Van Oster nods solemnly. "You hear about the cartels doing this stuff, but you never think it's going down right in your own backyard."

"Literally," Hoffman remarks, thinking of Hank Schrader.

Van Oster catches his meaning. "That's something else, isn't it. To have that going on in your own family. It almost doesn't make sense to me." And realizing how that sounds, he adds quickly, "Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying he was in on it. But I can't believe a guy as sharp as Hank could miss all that. He was no dummy."

"He didn't exactly miss it, did he?"

Van Oster shakes his head. "What I'm saying is... What if he knew all this time? I mean, think about how the news would've sounded if he didn't lose his life chasing this. It might've been years he was trying to get the solid evidence to nail Heisenberg, and he couldn't tell any of us about it because he would've gone down in flames."

It's Hoffman's turn to shake his head. "That week he called out sick, right before he and Steve went missing... That must've been when he finally found out. He had me and Artie bringing him files on the Fring case, setting up a whole office in his garage. He didn't look sick to me. He looked like a man on a mission."

Van Oster goes quiet for a minute. Hank and Steve were both good cops. The entire investigation feels adrift without them. His eyes settle on the Jesse Pinkman's mugshot, posted right in the middle of the board with strings connecting it to every scene his fingerprints were located. "What do you make of this kid?" he asks, getting back on track.

"Dopey-looking motherfucker, that's for sure."

"Be serious," Van Oster sighs. He points to the photograph of the Kimber Ultra Raptor II found at the scene. "The kid shoots a renowned Aryan gang leader point-blank in the head and strangles the guy's nephew to death. That takes some cold-hearted rage."

"Don't overthink it. They partnered up to take Hank and Steve out, worked together for a few months, had a falling-out. It's always a power struggle with these guys."

"Where's Heisenberg fit into it?" Van Oster asks. "Did the kid know where he was all along? Were they in contact? Was the kid taking orders or giving them?"

"You're sweating the details, buddy. Right now we're just trying to find the guy. We can worry about his life story after we've got him in lockup." Hoffman turns to the map they've spread out on the table. It's covered with notations about Jesse Pinkman's possible whereabouts, routes highlighted and potential hiding places circled in pen. "Let's check in with our POIs and call highway patrol to see how those roadblocks are doing. Maybe we've caught something in the nets."  
  


###### 

  
Jesse can feel Saul's stare on him. He keeps his own gaze fixed on the road ahead, squinting against the sun, which is too bright for his pale eyes despite the shield of his baseball cap's bill. The quiet's making him uncomfortable, so he reaches to turn on the radio.

Only static.

"Too many mountains," Saul explains, helpfully turning the radio off again. "I should've gotten Sirius. I kept telling myself I wouldn't be driving this clunker long enough to warrant it. Who knew that old bastard would keep breathing for a whole other six months?"

Jesse glances at him and clenches his jaw before returning his eyes to the road.

"Sore subject," Saul realizes, holding a hand up. "My mistake."

Another moment of silence passes between them.

"Were you trying to catch the news?" Saul pipes up again. "'cause I can bring you up to speed with what my source told me this morning."

"Francesca, you mean," Jesse mutters. "You can say her name. I know who you're talking about."

Saul pales a bit and goes quiet for too long while he internally flails for a name to give that isn't Fran's.

Jesse casts another look at him. "What're you so worried about?" he asks with a bitter little smile. "You think I'm gonna turn this car around and go after her? I'm not like you, Saul. I don't go after innocent people just to get at somebody they know."

"Jesse, that isn't what—"

"Save it." He switches lanes, moving to the right. Their exit's coming up in a few miles.

"We've gotta talk about this eventually, don't we?" Saul implores. "I mean, Jesse... It isn't healthy. Holding onto all that—"

Jesse cuts him off again: "The only thing we gotta talk about is how we're getting me outta the country." His eyes scan the rearview mirror for signs of a patrol car, as he's been doing periodically for the entire drive. "I mean, you haven't even really told me what the plan is."

"I'll lay it all out for you once we've reached our destination," Saul says, folding his arms.

"Why can't you do it now?"

Saul scoffs. "Because when you want somebody to keep you alive for a little while longer, you don't give them everything they ask for upfront."

Jesse rolls his tongue around in his mouth, making no attempt to reassure Saul. Maybe it works for him, Saul thinking he could go off at any second. He turns the car right onto Camino del Rio, leading them straight into the downtown district of Durango.

"See that Dairy Queen up ahead?" Saul asks.

"Yeah?"

"Pull into the parking lot."

Jesse doesn't bother asking why, figuring it's a dead drop or otherwise some part of making contact with Saul's guy. He turns into the lot and pulls into a space, leaving the car running as he expects Saul to simply pop out to fetch whatever they're here for.

"No, come on," Saul says as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "You, too."

"Me?" Jesse asks skeptically, glancing around. "You forgetting what happened last time I showed my face in public?"

"Sure, yeah," Saul dismisses. He obviously doesn't believe that Jesse actually saw Skyler White back in Santa Rosa. "But we're not even in New Mexico anymore, and you could use some sun."

"Is that what we're doing here?" Jesse asks. "Getting some sun?"

"And ice cream." Saul opens the passenger side door and steps out of the car.

Jesse hesitates, throwing another look out the window. He's beginning to doubt what he saw in Santa Rosa, too. It wouldn't be the first time he's gotten confused about the reality of a situation. What would Skyler White have been doing in that town? It makes no sense. And it makes even less sense that she or anyone else he knows would be in this one, tucked into the Colorado mountains. He turns the engine off and opens the door to follow Saul, who's paused to wait for him by the entrance to the Dairy Queen.

"We're really just here for ice cream?" Jesse asks. He feels more suspicious with each step, as if they'll open the door to find a dozen cops waiting inside.

Saul senses his reluctance. "You want me to go in and order for you?"

"Yeah, I guess." Jesse's a bit too anxious to feel hungry, but he's pretty sick of arguing about it.

"What flavor?"

"I don't care."

"Dipped?"

"I seriously don't care, Saul."

Saul shrugs. "Okay. Be right back."

Once Saul disappears inside, Jesse walks over to the outdoor tables and takes a seat atop one of them, resting his feet on the bench seat. He lights a cigarette and scans the road for signs of police, but it's a quiet day with few cars at all, even though they're close to the center of town. With nothing else to look at, his eyes travel up the Dairy Queen sign to the marquee. It reads: **WITHOUT ICE CREAM THERE WOULD BE DARKNESS & CHAOS**.

What's that even supposed to mean?

Saul reappears a moment later with two chocolate-dipped cones in hand. He hops up to take a seat beside Jesse on the tabletop and offers one over. "Cheers."

"It's an ice cream, not a drink," Jesse says. He turns the cone in his hand, examining its hardened chocolate shell. "I always thought this stuff tasted like plastic."

"Hey, I asked what flavor you wanted," Saul says, smacking his lips. He's already halfway through his top scoop.

"I didn't really want anything."

"I'm touched by your gratitude."

Jesse wrinkles his nose and takes a bite off the top of his ice cream. The chocolate still tastes like plastic. He feels like he's ten years old again. It's funny how a flavor can do that.

"Look," Saul sighs. "I know it's not much of a peace offering, but I'm really trying here. It's like you said before. We're in this together, right? Like Thelma and Louise."

"If you kiss me, I'm breaking all your teeth."

"Or not like Thelma and Louise. Insert pop culture reference of your choice. My point is—"

"Yeah, I get it." Jesse takes another bite of ice cream.

Saul doesn't think he gets it. " _My point is_ , you can relax. I won't leave you high and dry. I took care of everything down in Santa Fe, didn't I?"

Jesse nods in concession. Yes, he did.

"So you can share the burden."

Jesse wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at Saul, only to be met by Saul's expectant gaze. "What?" Jesse asks, not sure what Saul's waiting for. And then it dawns on him. "You want me to talk to you? About what happened down there?"

Saul lifts his eyebrows. "I think it'd help a little, don't you?"

"Who's it gonna help?" Jesse curls his lip sardonically. "Me? You think I wanna be thinking about any of that right now?"

Saul raises a finger. "Okay. Obvious trauma recovery aside... What do you think's gonna happen if we do get caught? First thing."

Jesse pauses. He's starting to get it. "They'll ask about what went down."

"Bingo," says Saul with a snap of his fingers. "Now, seeing as I'm your defense attorney, don't you think it'd be wise if we go over the details of the crime scene? Like what exactly they might have on you, evidence-wise."

"Ain't I screwed either way?"

"Not necessarily." He points to Jesse's cone. "Finish your ice cream. Unwind a little. Then we're gonna spend all day working things out. I found us a nice little mountain retreat up the road. It's very zen. And it'll be cathartic, talking everything through. Help you put it all behind you."

Jesse doubts it'll be so easy to put it all behind him. But working out his defense does sound like the smartest plan, so he nods and goes back to eating.  
  


###### 

  
They're eating ice cream. They're sitting on top of a picnic table, eating ice cream like a couple of teenage boys during the lazy days of summer vacation. Skyler leans back in her driver's seat, fuming as she watches them from the parking lot across the street. Where are the police? How can it be so easy for one of the most wanted criminals in the country to pass through each town virtually unseen? Thank God she stopped relying on the authorities to take care of this. She'd never have a peaceful night's rest again.

From this distance, she can't see who exactly Pinkman's with. An older man, certainly, but his features were mostly concealed by his white cowboy hat while he was walking, and now they're both sitting with their backs turned to her. She doesn't expect it's anyone she'd recognize, anyway. Perhaps a relative. Whatever the case, he's hardly intimidating. She isn't very worried about what kind of threat he might pose.

She reaches for her cigarette pack. If they're going to enjoy an ice cream, she's going to enjoy a smoke. She rolls down her window and lights up, her eyes flitting shut as she inhales. She hasn't had an opportunity to eat since early this morning, and she doubts she'll get one. Cigarettes will have to sustain her through the day.

When she opens her eyes, she finds that the couple across the street still haven't moved. She switches her cigarette to her left hand and drapes it out the window while her right hand reaches into her purse. After a moment of blind searching, she pulls out Marie's gun.

It's heavier than she would expect. She marvels at the idea of her sister, with her stick-thin arms, practicing at a range with something this heavy. Skyler weighs it tentatively in her palm, trying to figure out whether she herself will be able to hold it steady when the time comes. She lifts the gun up and aims it in the direction of Pinkman, resting her wrist on the steering wheel. That isn't so bad. She might be able to do it like that. Not now, of course—not in broad daylight, not from this distance.

She lowers the gun and tucks it back into her purse, then brings the cigarette to her lips once more. So strange, this bloodthirst. For the first time in a long time, she _feels_ something. Throughout the past year, she's been dead inside, numbed by her fear and overwhelmed by the forces at work around her. Now, finally, she feels the anger that defined most of her existence—from teenagehood on—reignited. She's on track to seizing control of her own life again. It feels good. Despite her exhaustion, her cheeks are flushed with vitality and a small smile plays on her lips.  
  


###### 

  
Autumn's come earlier to Durango than Albuquerque. The trees lining the Million Dollar Highway have already begun to turn, their leaves alight in warm yellows and reds. Saul's driving now, which gives Jesse the opportunity to take everything in. Instead of a sprawling desert landscape, they're surrounded by rolling mountains and dense forest. Jesse appreciates that difference. After days of going in circles, they're finally making progress toward something, and that progress is apparent in the land itself.

"You ever been up here?" Saul asks, noticing Jesse's wonder.

"Nah. My folks weren't real into skiing."

"Yeah, it's too bad the season's not started yet. Not that I'm much for skiing, myself—not a fan of broken limbs and such—but there's definitely something special about this place when it's covered in snow. Me, personally? I like to sit out in the hot springs. Good for what ails ya. Plus, you oughta see some of the girls that come out there. Hoo boy."

"Mm," Jesse answers, noncommittal. Skiing. Hot springs. Girls. All that's part of some other world now. The trees, though… He could get used to the trees and the mountains. He hopes there's a lot of those wherever he ends up.

Saul glances at him again. "Cheer up, kid. Today's all about R&R. It's like my yoga instructor would say: we're in a place of healing."

"God," Jesse huffs in a short, humorless laugh. "Of course you have a yoga instructor."

"Don't make fun. The sex was _incredible_."

Jesse presses his forehead against the window. The sunlight filtering through the trees shimmers like glitter. "I keep thinking something bad's gonna happen," he confesses.

"What?" Saul asks, suddenly nervous. "Like what?"

"I dunno. Just this feeling. Like it's the calm before the storm."

Saul directs his gaze forward, hyperfocusing on the road ahead of them. "Nothing's gonna happen to you, Jesse."

"You can't tell me it's smooth sailing from here." Jesse knows better than that.

"Of course it's not," Saul sighs. "Which is why you gotta take the opportunity to unwind while you can."

They pass a sign that declares they're entering Purgatory Village & Ski Resort, and the road dips down to curve along the side of the mountain. The trees on the right part to reveal a view of a resort town made up of scattered log cabins and a giant lodge reminiscent of a Tudor castle. In the center of it all, a blue lake glows as clear and bright as a crystal. It's a fairy tale scene.

"We're staying here?" Jesse asks, awed.

Saul smiles. "Yup. Off-season discount. Hardly anybody else around. Nice, right?"

Once they've descended the hill, Saul turns off for the road leading toward the cabins. They pull up to the house at the very edge of the development, closest to the trees. If it were later in the evening, Jesse might find its remoteness a bit suspect, but on this sunny afternoon, the cabin and the golden forest look friendly and welcoming.

"Hang out here for a minute," Saul tells him as he turns off the engine. "I'm gonna run up to the office to get our keys."

Jesse nods and sits back to watch him go, his face softening into a faint smile. It's as unexpectedly nice as the La Fonda back in Santa Fe. He has to hand it to Saul: the guy's really taking care of him. He's been pulling out all the stops. Did his conscience finally catch up with him, or what?  
  


###### 

  
Flynn nudges the front door shut with his crutch. The house is silent, which isn't all that unusual nowadays, but it always leaves him with a sense of unease. He misses the days when he'd come home to Uncle Hank and Aunt Marie sitting on the couch watching sports or a game show, gabbing back and forth about all the lame stuff grownups find funny. In those days, Flynn would make a beeline straight to his room, too moody for family time.

What he wouldn't give to go back to that.

"Anybody home?" he calls out as he shuffles from the foyer into the living room.

"Oh!" rises a surprised cry from Holly's room. A moment later, Marie comes scurrying out. "Flynn! I wasn't sure if you'd be home tonight."

"Just picking up some stuff," he tells her, looking in the direction of the guest room where Skyler's been staying. "Did mom and Holly go back to the apartment?"

Marie's eyes go wide. "Oh!—No, no. Holly's here. Your mom's, um, back at work. I tried to tell her she should take a little more time off, but you know how she is."

"She wasn't answering her phone."

"Yeah," Marie laughs with a roll of her eyes. "Turns out she forgot it in the laundry room this morning. I thought I heard something ringing in there and, _woops_ , there it was!"

Flynn nods slowly. "Okay, well… Um... You think it's okay if I stay with Louis again tonight?"

Marie lets out a short breath of relief. "Oh, of course, honey. I'm sure she won't mind. I'll let her know when she gets home."

"Okay," Flynn says, turning to head to his room. "Thanks, Aunt Marie."

"Have fun with Louis," Marie calls after him. The moment he's gone, the smile fades from her lips, replaced by a worried frown. How long is she going to have to keep this up? She can cover for Skyler for one or two days, but eventually Flynn's going to catch on.

And so will the DEA.  
  


###### 

  
They're getting smart, keeping to places where it'll be harder and harder for someone to follow them. Skyler almost lost sight of them during their mountain descent because she had to stay so far behind them. And the cabin they've chosen is so isolated, the closest she can get to it is a neighboring picnic area. With no one else around, the silver rental car shines like a beacon among the golden-browns of the surrounding foliage. But what other choice does she have? Anywhere else and she'll lose the trail altogether.

She rolls the car to a stop and prays they're not looking for her. Maybe, just maybe, it can pass for the car of a fellow camper.

There hasn't been any movement from the cabin since she watched them carry their luggage inside. The windows remain shuttered, which she expects will be the case for the entirety of their stay. Given that they brought their bags inside, she expects that to be at least overnight. She's grateful for that. It means she might be able to catch a few hours of sleep, herself. They're badly needed.

The chimney of the cabin emits a puff of smoke. They've lit a fire. That's her cue to recline her seat and settle in. No one lights a wood fire unless they plan to stick around for a while. She lies back and turns her body so she's facing the cabin, watching it until she drifts off.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse leans in close to the warmth of the wood stove. The sun hasn't even set, but the shade of the trees keeps it from heating the cabin and the mountain air is cool and crisp. It takes a fire to cast the chill away. The flames illuminate the rest of the living room, with its walls made of real logs and its hand-carved furniture. Everything smells like pine, a scent that Jesse associates with Christmas, though winter is still months off.

It's... cozy.

The bathroom door opens at last and Saul steps out, dressed in a bathrobe and towel-drying his hair. "Oh, good," he says when he spots Jesse crouched by the fire. "Looks like you're making yourself at home."

Jesse squints at Saul's bare face and straightens to full height. "You shaved."

Saul points to his wet hair, which Jesse realizes is now a darker, reddish color. No more grey. "Made use of some of that extra dye your buddies brought, too."

"You worried somebody saw you with me?"

"Can't be too careful." Saul drapes the towel across his shoulders. "If anybody's looking for a mustached guy in a cowboy hat who may have been spotted with Jesse Pinkman in Santa Fe, now they won't find him."

Jesse leans up against the arm of the couch. "That chick back at the hotel knew your name and everything. You worried about that?"

Saul snorts and shakes his head, settling onto the couch itself. "I've got enough dirt on that girl to put her away for twenty years and she knows it. She won't be making any calls."

"You're kind of a bastard," Jesse notes. He's not sure if he should admire Saul for blackmailing their way into a fancy hotel or whether it's more evidence that the guy can't be trusted.

"She didn't look unhappy to see me, now did she?" Saul points out. But they're not here to talk about his other former clients. Saul pats the cushion beside him, inviting Jesse to sit down properly.

Fatigued after their long drive, Jesse sinks into his seat without argument. "It's time to talk, isn't it," he sighs.

"It is, yeah." Saul folds his hands in his lap, ready to listen. "Take your time. Let's start with how all those bodies got there and work our way back."

"I only killed one of 'em," Jesse bristles, defensive.

"I believe you," Saul assures him. "But walk me through it anyway."

Jesse gnaws on his lower lip for a moment, looking off toward the fire. He'd rather do anything right now than go over the details of that day. He's been able to push it from his mind since it happened, too preoccupied with his escape to spend much time dwelling on it. But Saul's brought him to this quiet place specifically to give him a chance to talk about it all. And Jesse knows, deep down, that he has to process it for himself, too. So he takes a deep breath and begins: "I was in the lab…"  
  


###### 

  
The back door of the cabin swings open and Jesse steps out onto the porch, lighting a cigarette. Saul doesn't exactly follow him, content to stay back and lean against the doorframe. He's still dressed in his bathrobe, after all. "You did good," he tells Jesse. "I can work up a pretty good defense with all that."

"Whatever," Jesse mutters around the cigarette between his lips. He can tell Saul's lying. There's too little actual evidence to support any of his claims. It'll come down to playing on a jury's emotions, and he doesn't see them ever sympathizing with someone like him.

"It's enough for now, at least." Information is currency, and after their talk, Saul has a lot of it. He's personally very satisfied with how that session went.

"I'm going for a walk," Jesse tells him, nodding toward the forest. The sun is getting low on the horizon, and soon it'll disappear behind the mountains. He wants to take advantage of the light while he still can.

Saul waves him off. "Dinner should be ready when you get back."

Jesse hops down off the porch without another look, making his way around the side of the cabin to find a pathway that winds through the trees. It's still strange for him, the concept that he can come and go as he pleases, that he won't run up against a fence, that he's not restricted by the length of his leash. There's really nothing to stop him from running into those woods and running forever. It's not something he'll do, but it's nice to have the option.

The path goes through a picnic area before it hits the woods proper. Jesse walks rather than runs, keeping a leisurely pace while he smokes his cigarette down. There's a silver car parked up ahead but he doesn't give it much thought. It looks empty as he comes upon it.

It's only when he's right beside it that he realizes the driver's still in there. His heart stops when he sees her and he finds himself frozen again, staring at her through the windshield.

She's asleep this time. Her eyes are shut and her head's tilted to one side, blonde hair draped across half of her face. She looks uncharacteristically peaceful. Every time he's ever seen her before, she's been scowling or horrified. This time, for once, Mrs. White is at rest.

Jesse drops his cigarette into the dirt and takes cautious steps closer to her car. She's alone in there, only her purse beside her. Given the way she's sleeping, huddled right in her seat like that, he figures she's been following them since the Drive-In. He's kind of impressed.

He looks around. No police. If they were there, they'd be on him by now. She's going at this alone. He can't imagine why she would risk it. It's insane, isn't it? Chasing an outlaw like him across hundreds of miles? Why wouldn't she just get the cops to do it?

He almost reaches out to tap on the glass and wake her, but he's pretty sure that'd be the most terrifying thing he could do to her. She'd probably expected him to stay in the cabin all night. She thought she'd be safe in this spot. If he wakes her, she'll think he's here to hurt her.

Jesse retreats a few steps and glances back toward the cabin. Should he tell Saul? He can't imagine that'd end well. He also doesn't know what the point would be. If she hasn't called the cops by now, she's not going to. But Saul will think otherwise. And he doesn't want to hear Saul's suggestions of what they should do with her, in that case.

Ultimately, he leaves her be, turning to continue along the path into the woods. All of the sudden, he has so much more to consider.  
  


###### 

  
"Heyyyy, it's Jimmy," Saul says cheerfully into the receiver, cradling the phone on his shoulder while he stirs the chili on the stove. "Just checking in. Wanted to let you know we're on schedule here. The package is due to arrive tomorrow night."

He reaches over to grab a few flakes of shredded cheddar from the bag beside him and tosses them into the pot. "Yeah, don't worry. He doesn't suspect a thing. He thinks we're heading that way so I can pick up a passport for him." Saul nudges the melting cheese around with his spoon, folding it into the chili while he listens to the man on the other line.

His eyes go to the back door briefly, but it's still shut. No sign of Jesse's return just yet.

"Yeah, I'll get you the room number once we're there. And then I call you as soon he's asleep, right? Easy peasy. I can slip him something. He's been taking food from me all day, no problem." Saul raises the spoon to his lips for a taste. Too hot. It burns his tongue and he grimaces.

"Right-o," he replies to the man on the phone, struggling to sound normal while his face is twisted up in pain. "See ya then." He hangs up quickly and immediately reaches for a glass of water to cool his sore mouth.

Just as he's putting the glass down, he hears Jesse's footsteps across the creaky floorboards of the porch. A second later, the door opens and the kid walks in. Jesse looks at him, then looks at the chili on the stove, but he doesn't offer a greeting. He merely locks the door behind him and takes a seat at the dining table.

"Nice walk?" Saul asks him, somewhat unnerved by his silence.

"Yeah," Jesse answers quietly, resting his chin on his palm.

Saul watches him for another moment before he nods and turns back to the stove. "Well, I hope you like chili."


	6. Route 15

Jesse didn't think it was possible for any place to be emptier than the New Mexican desert, but the entire state of Utah somehow manages it. Though both stretch for seemingly endless miles of flatland interrupted in the distance by jutting mesas, Utah feels desolate in a way the desert doesn't. Maybe it's something to do with the color of the rocks, a lifeless grey rather than vibrant red. With that hue, each landmark looks like a tombstone, so that it feels like they're passing through miles and miles of graveyard. And since Saul insisted on taking the wheel today, Jesse has nothing better to do than to watch the gravestones roll on by.

Either that, or stare at the passenger side mirror and watch Mrs. White's silver rental car tailing them about half a mile behind.

There's no one else on the road except the two of them, which must be making her nervous. If Jesse were in her place, he'd fall back even further. A long time ago, Mike explained to him that once you were good and familiar with your mark's vehicle, you only had to keep a short distance between you if you were worried they'd make a sudden turn. On a straight highway like this one, with exits few and far between, she could even stay two miles back and she wouldn't lose them.

From so close a proximity, Jesse occasionally catches a glimpse of her blonde hair. And every now and then, she rolls her window down and he can see her hand tapping out cigarette ashes into the wind. Is she enjoying this, her secret little chase across the southwest? She hasn't attempted to make contact, which leaves Jesse to guess at what she's after. Is she waiting for a chance to catch him alone?

...What's she going to do when she finally does?

"What happened to Mrs. White?" Jesse asks, breaking his hours-long silence. "After everything."

Unnerved by the question, Saul glances over with one eyebrow raised. "This again?"

"I'm just thinking. Like… She musta got in trouble, right? He had her doing stuff for him." He remembers when he'd encountered her at the car wash, her contempt for Jesse palpable, as if she blamed him for the both of them being there. And it's true: it was his fault, insofar as he hadn't let Mike shoot Walt when he'd had a chance, which allowed Walt to live on and terrorize Skyler another day. And he did—Jesse is sure now—terrorize her. "Did they put her away?"

"Not yet," Saul answers in a tone that suggests he'd rather not be talking about her at all.

Jesse's eyes remain on Skyler's car in the mirror. "She _is_ in trouble, though."

"She was his moll, so yeah, she's in trouble. Look, who cares? She made her bed, Jesse. Whatever happens to her, it's not your problem. You've got enough on your plate as it is."

"She wasn't his moll," Jesse mumbles.

"What?"

"She wasn't his moll. She didn't wanna be doing it. He made her."

Saul bursts out a laugh. "Is that what you think? Poor innocent little Skyler White, bullied by her big bad husband? Hey, I've got news for you: she practically forced her way into our little operation. I woulda rather let Marina's Dry Cleaners over on Central launder his money than let his damn wife near it. She wouldn't have it, and nobody was more upset about that than Walter himself. Believe me, he would've been happy to keep her out of our business forever. _She_ wanted in."

Jesse rests his chin on his arm, leaning up against the window. He doesn't know how much he buys that. The way she turned to look at him just before disappearing into the office of that car wash.

_Vamonos._

_I wish._

"If she helped 'em catch me," Jesse asks, "would that make 'em go easier on her?"

Saul shoots him another look. "Do I need to pull this car over?"

"No."

"Well stop talking like that. Whatever you think you saw back at the restaurant, Jesse, it wasn't her. And I say this outta concern for you, alright? You gotta stop dwelling on it. You're on your way to a new life. All you gotta do for now is sit back and enjoy the scenery."

Instead, Jesse watches Skyler's slender hand drape out of her driver's side window, tapping off another cigarette.  
  


###### 

  
The phone rings, loud and shrill enough to startle Marie right out of her midday nap. Since Skyler's been gone, it's been up to her to take care of Holly all by herself, which is no small task when dealing with a two-year-old. She rubs at her eyes miserably and gropes for the phone beside the bed—which isn't her own bed, but the guest bed in the room they've turned into Holly's nursery. The bed where Jesse Pinkman once slept.

"Hello?" Marie whispers into the receiver, trying to keep from waking Holly.

"Mrs. Schrader? This is Agent Hoffman."

Marie nearly drops the phone in her hurry to sit upright. "Yes? Hi, it's me. Yeah. What's going on?" Is it news about Skyler?

"We tried to reach you at work. Is everything alright?"

Marie huffs out a short breath, trying to keep from sounding too impatient or nervous. "Yes, everything's fine. I just—I took the week off. On account of... everything."

Hoffman sounds apologetic, "Of course. How have you and Mrs. White been holding up?"

"Ms. Lambert," Marie corrects.

"Ms. Lambert. Yes. Have you both been well?"

"As well as anyone can be, given the circumstances." Marie pauses. Something's off. "Can I help you with anything, Agent Hoffman?"

"Actually, you can. Would it be too much trouble for you to come down to headquarters this afternoon? Whenever's convenient for you. We had a few more questions regarding Jesse Pinkman."

Marie looks over to Holly's crib. The little girl's still sleeping peacefully. "Sure," Marie answers, her uneasiness growing. "In a couple hours, if that's okay."

"That's perfectly fine," Hoffman replies. "If you need anything from us—an escort, for instance—give us a call."

"Thank you," Marie says carefully, "but it's been quiet here all day. I don't think we'll be needing anyone."

"Okay. See you then."

Marie hangs up and climbs off the bed to pace the length of the room, her arms crossed over her chest. Questions about Jesse Pinkman, he said. But why not ask over the phone? And to offer an escort like that, when they're already shorthanded. Does the DEA believe they're in danger now? Or is it something else?

Marie turns to the bedroom closet and slides back the door, revealing a stack of cardboard file boxes. She'd reorganized these herself, after the house was ransacked. They're Hank's notes, the ones she'd managed to keep the DEA from confiscating because he'd been brilliant enough to hide them in crates of Schraderbrau. It felt important to hold onto them, if only because he'd written them with his own hand. She's never read through them in their entirety, but she remembers the subjects of these files. She'd done her very best to preserve everything in neat order.

She kneels down now to open the box that contains his notes on Pinkman. If the boys at the DEA are keeping something from her, she should at least even the playing field a little by bringing herself up to speed with their suspect.  
  


###### 

  
Somehow, Skyler's not surprised when they take the exit for Las Vegas Boulevard. If ever there were shady connections to be made, it'd be in this festering hellhole. She imagines that Jesse Pinkman spent plenty of weekends in this city, blowing his drug money on blackjack and hookers. He's practically a cartoon, a parody of every crook she's ever seen on television. So far, in the department of scum-of-the-earth, he has met every single expectation.

She follows the wood-paneled station wagon down the boulevard until it pulls into the parking lot of the High Hat Regency—a sleazy motel which, again to no surprise, happens to be located directly next to a strip club. She rolls her eyes and U-turns further down the road, coming back around about a minute later to pull her own car into the motel lot.

She's just in time to catch Pinkman and his companion heading up the stairs. It's someone new, now: a younger man with bright red hair, dressed in a green track suit that makes him look like a leprechaun. She can only see the back of them before they disappear into their room at the top of the stairs, but she knows Pinkman by that baseball cap he's been wearing since she encountered him at the Drive-In. Not much of a disguise, in her opinion, but she can't expect someone of his low intelligence to come up with anything better.

As for Skyler: she gets to work. While they're settling into their motel room, she's going to make sure she blends in with the girls next door. She's willing to bet a thousand dollars that Pinkman will be heading there next, because that's the type of man he is.

She adjusts the mirror and pulls her purse into her lap, combing her hair back and pinning it into a messy, playful bun. Next, she shrugs off her cardigan and stuffs a handful of fast food napkins into her bra to push up her breasts. With a few gaudy tweaks to her makeup, she'll be able to pass seamlessly through the sea of other blondes in that place and fade into the background until she has her chance to corner Pinkman alone.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse turns his hand over slowly, his eyes following the red lines etched into his wrist where—not even a week ago—his handcuffs used to chafe. Unlike the others, he doesn't think these wounds will scar. They're already well on their way to healing. It's strange to think... The Jesse of one week ago couldn't walk more than a few yards before reaching the edge of his entire world. And now he's in Las Vegas.

He hears the lock of the motel door turning and quickly tugs his t-shirt over his head. Saul's already seen what they've done to him, at least briefly, but that doesn't mean Jesse wants it on constant display.

"Hey," Saul greets him as he steps into the room with two plastic bags in tow. "How's the water?"

"Fine," Jesse answers with a shrug. It took a while to heat up, which he knows will bother Saul whenever it's his turn to shower, but it's not a major problem for Jesse. He's grateful whenever he gets a chance to bathe at all. He picks up his towel and runs it over his hair one last time before hanging it onto the rod in the bathroom.

When he walks back into the bedroom, he finds Saul unpacking take-out boxes onto the card table that doubles as a dining table. "You hungry, champ?" Saul asks with a grin. "There's this primo Chinese place down the block. I like to pick something up first thing anytime I'm in town. You gotta try the chow mein." He doesn't even wait for Jesse to answer, already opening up the box and shoving forward a pair of chopsticks.

Jesse wrinkles his nose. "Dude, we had Arby's like two hours ago."

"And? You gotta keep your strength up, kid."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna be sick if I eat again already. You know—" He gestures to his malnourished figure. He's not used to eating full meals, let alone eating them every few hours.

Saul concedes with a dip of his head. "You're right, you're right. No rush." He folds down the lid of the chow mein box, saving that for later.

Jesse sinks down onto the edge of the bed. "Anyway… You get a chance to talk to your guy?"

Saul looks up with eyebrows raised, apparently too enamored with the food to remember why they're here in the first place. "Mm?"

"Your guy. My papers."

"Oh—Right, yeah. I called him from the payphone downstairs. He says we probably oughta settle in for the night, 'cause it's looking like he won't be ready for us 'til morning."

Jesse casts an anxious glance out the window, his hands fidgeting. "Jesus, after we busted our asses trying to get here on time. I thought he was expecting us this afternoon."

Saul glances down to the take-out box in his hand and nudges it aside. "Yeah, well, you know how it goes with these guys. Always on their schedule, never on ours." His eyes drop to Jesse's twitching fingers. "You want a Xanax? You seem nervous."

Jesse shakes his head, squeezing his hands in order to keep them still. "Just… When it gets close like this—When it seems like I might actually catch a break—I get so scared. Like I'm gonna blink and miss it. My chance. You ever think about how often that happens? Every day, you're missing all kinds of stuff. If you woke up a little sooner. If you ran a little faster. You're a minute, a second too late, and it's gone. That thing that coulda made everything better. Or stopped it from getting worse."

"You win some, you lose some," Saul murmurs somberly. "It's all dumb luck. No point in worrying about the things you can't help."

Jesse's gaze moves from the window, back to Saul. "Just tell me I'm gonna make it this time."

Saul's expression softens, his shoulders sinking an inch or two. "You're gonna make it, kid. The end's in sight."

Jesse gives him a weak smile that's gone as soon as it appears. He picks himself up off the bed and reaches for his hat. "Gonna head downstairs for a drink."

Saul's on his feet, too. "You sure that's a good idea? I mean, given your condition and all?"

"I'm a meth addict, not an alcoholic. Two drinks, tops. I won't get wasted."

"Maybe I oughta come with you."

Jesse rolls his eyes. "You gotta wait here in case the guy comes by, remember? Besides, the less we're in public together, the better."

Saul doesn't look happy about it, but he gives in. "Keep your head down. And if you're not back in an hour, I'm coming over there to look for you."

"Relax." Jesse nods to the stack of take-out boxes. "Eat your chow mein."

Saul settles back into his chair. There's no sense in pushing. He knows how Jesse is. If he gets too aggressive about it, Jesse will rail against him just to spite him. He watches the kid go, reaching for the box of chow mein as soon as the door's shut. It's not for him to eat. He folds a little rabbit ear into the flap to remind himself which one to save for later. Then he picks up one of the other boxes—one that isn't poisoned.  
  


###### 

  
Jesse nudges his tumbler forward and nods to the bartender for a refill. His third, actually, despite his promise to Saul. But then, Saul's promise to him was just as false, wasn't it? He's past the point of believing a word out of that guy's mouth.

As soon as the whiskey's appeared in his glass, Jesse tosses it back. It isn't what he's looking for, of course. It does very little for him beyond warming that icy feeling in his gut and rolling the tension out of his shoulders. Alcohol drags him down when what he wants to do is fly.

He knows he's not going to. It ends here. Tonight.

His glazed eyes drift to the stage, where a girl in nothing but sequined panties glides down a silver pole to the downtempo heartbeat of some sexed-up pop tune. He's still got a couple hundred dollars of Todd's money stuffed in his pockets. He could have himself a good time, if he felt so inclined. But that's doing nothing for him, the sight of a woman who's miserable behind the eyes while wearing a smile on her face and very little else.

He pushes his glass forward again and turns his eyes up to the mirrored wall behind the bar. Reflected there, sitting in the dark corner to his left, is a blonde in a push-up bra who's had her eyes on him all night. She hasn't approached him even though the stool next to him has remained empty. That tells him that she's waiting to catch him when he's _really_ alone, away from witnesses.

"Okay," he whispers to himself, working up his nerve. He takes the last shot and leaves a wad of bills on the bartop. His hour's nearly up. Time to face the music. As he stands up, he sees her reflection do the same out of the corner of his eye. She's ready to follow him out.

He makes it easy for her, taking the back door instead of the front. It leads out to the trash, which is about as good a place to dump his body as anywhere else. That's what she's doing, right? Killing him? He's not stupid. It's a good place for murder, too. The beat of the music inside might even cover the sound of the gunshot.

He steps forward, putting a few feet between himself and the door, keeping his back turned to it so that she can think she's caught him unawares. He's making like he's lighting a cigarette, just about to lift it to his lips when he hears the door swing open behind him.

And there she is, pressing the barrel of her gun to the small of his back, right up against his spine. "Don't move," she whispers into his ear.

He moves anyway, dropping his cigarette and lighter then lifting his hands into the air... in surrender. When she doesn't immediately pull the trigger, he starts to turn his head to get a look at her.

"Don't," she warns, pushing so hard against his back that it's sure to leave a bruise.

He complies, facing forward. "My head," he tells her quietly.

She doesn't think she heard right. "What?"

"Not there. Not my spine. You gotta shoot me in the head. Or else I won't die right away. They'll hear me screaming." He swallows. "And you gotta… You gotta remember the casings. Pick 'em up or else they'll trace 'em to you. You understand?"

Skyler wavers, the pressure against Jesse's back easing up just a touch.

In that moment of hesitation, Jesse whirls around and grabs hold of the barrel, twisting it in Skyler's hand so that it's pointed away from the both of them. Just like Mike taught him once upon a time, he shoves his forearm beneath her chin and pushes until her back's up against the wall, effectively pinning her there.

She's stunned, her eyes wide with fear as she stares down at him. He's neither the boy she remembers nor the lunatic she imagined. His gaze is calm and steady, his brow drawn in concentration. If he kills her, he'll do it effectively, neatly, and then be on his way. She's beginning to understand how he's eluded the police for so long. It's because he knows what he's doing. And she doesn't.

"Sorry about this, Mrs. White," he says.

"That's not my name," she hisses softly, her voice stifled by the elbow against her throat. She fights to turn the gun back in his direction, but he's stronger than he looks, keeping it aimed at the dumpster beside them.

"I don't wanna hurt you," he murmurs, holding her gaze. "Lemme talk for one minute, and if you still wanna shoot me when I'm finished, that's fine. But I don't think you ever killed anybody before. And I have. And I can tell you it ain't something you wanna live with if you don't gotta. And what I want you to know is you don't gotta do this."

"Why should I believe anything you have to say?" Skyler spits back. This man, this partner of Walt's, who was right by her husband's side through every shady deal until it came time to stab Walt in the back, too. How could a man like this have any honor to speak of?

He turns her hand, giving it enough slack to go where it wants to go, and it ends up with the barrel pressed under his chin. He doesn't let go of it, however—her hand wrapped around the gun and his hand wrapped around hers, so that she'll feel him holding her right up until the moment she pulls that trigger. "You don't wanna kill me," he says, when her finger still refuses to do it. "And I don't wanna die."

Schrader had said something like that, the day Jesse tried to burn the Whites' house down. He hasn't forgotten it.

Skyler's hand shakes beneath Pinkman's grip. It would be easy, she thinks, if she couldn't feel his warmth, his pulse against her skin. She might otherwise convince herself he doesn't have a human heart. He's been a monster lurking in the shadows for so long. And now…

The scrape of footsteps coming up the other side of the building breaks the stalemate between them. They both turn their heads, but Jesse, from his angle, can see who's coming first: a pair of uniformed police officers. His eyes widen but there's no time to warn her. They're about to round the corner. He moves quickly, one hand against the back of her neck to push her head forward, the other drawing the gun down so that it's concealed between the tangle of their bodies. And then he locks his lips against hers, hiding both of their faces from view with a kiss. Deep. Desperate. Like their lives depend on it.

The officers don't spare them a second glance. They're not looking for a couple in the throes of passion. They head straight inside.

Skyler's stomach turns, her body cold as Pinkman violates her mouth. The second she feels him break away, she slaps him across the face with her free hand.

"Sorry," he whispers, shrinking back by instinct. Suddenly a boy again, he lets go of the gun to rub gingerly at his cheek.

A fatal mistake. Skyler brings the pistol up again, this time pressing it to his forehead, her fury renewed.

"Whoa there!" exclaims a familiar voice beside them. In the chaos of the moment, neither of them had noticed his approach. But there stands Saul Goodman, a pistol of his own in hand, and this one aimed squarely at Skyler. He exhales a nervous laugh as they both gape at him. "Maybe everybody could use a timeout."

"Saul, don't," Jesse orders sternly.

Skyler glances between the two of them, her mouth hanging open in shock. _That's_ who Pinkman's been traveling with? _Saul Goodman?_

Saul puts his hand out, palm up, gesturing for Skyler to hand her gun over. "I'm not doing anything, Jesse. We're all being sane adults here. Look at all three of us, not doing something completely crazy like shooting anybody in a back alley outside a club that's swarming with cops. We're all being very reasonable here. Isn't that right, Skyler?" He chuckles again, for punctuation, though he looks about ready to throw up.

Skyler presses her lips into a resentful line and places her gun in his hand.

Saul nods and gestures with both guns, now. "Walk. We're walking. Slow and quiet. There we go."

"Saul—" Jesse begins, but Saul gives him a sharp look to silence him, and Jesse falls in line, putting an arm around Skyler both to lead her and to shield her.

"Where are we going?" Skyler asks either of them. Jesse can feel her trembling beneath his grip.

"The heck outta here, that's where," Saul answers, throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure they're not being followed. He shoves the guns into the pockets of his jacket, though he keeps them aimed toward Skyler's back.

When they come up around the other side of the building, Jesse sees what Saul meant by "swarming with cops". Four cruisers have pulled up in front of the club, lights flashing. The cars themselves are empty, however—the officers must all be inside the building. Jesse picks up the pace and Skyler hurries without argument. She's apparently as afraid of getting caught as he is.

"Upstairs," Saul orders as they reach the motel, and again, Skyler complies. In a choice between the police and the gun-wielding criminals, somehow the criminals win out.

As soon as they're safely inside the motel room, the guns are out again.

"Quit pointing those things at her," Jesse snaps.

"Shut up, Jesse," Saul retorts, his patience for these idiots drawn thin. He points at the bed. "Sit. Both of you."

"What the fuck are you—?"

" _Sit_."

Skyler obeys, white as a sheet now, and staring off like she's gone to some other place in her mind. Jesse sits beside her, trying to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him.

Saul turns away for a second, popping the ammo out of Skyler's gun and disabling it before tossing it onto the table next to the take-out boxes. There's a glass of water already waiting there, and Saul picks it up and carries it over to Skyler. "Here," he says, his tone growing gentler. Or at least wearied. "Just… Have a drink. Calm down."

Skyler takes the water, her movements robotic. She drinks as she's ordered.

Again, Jesse tries to look her in the eye. "Hey," he murmurs to her. "You're okay. We're not gonna hurt you."

Skyler looks at Saul first, at the gun he's still carrying, and then finally at Jesse. "You say that," she whispers, her voice hoarse after the way he was holding her by the throat, "but I know you can't let me go, either."

Jesse glances up at Saul. It's true. They can't. Right now, Jesse has no idea what Saul intends to do about that. And Saul's the one with the gun.

Saul chuckles, his skin coated with sweat. He doesn't actually have a plan. In fact, within the span of thirty minutes, he's watched every single plan he's had unravel into a magnificent clusterfuck. "Let's just relax for a few," he says with a shrug.

"Why'd the cops show up?" Jesse asks, making for a temporary change of subject.

"I thought _she_ called 'em," Saul answers, "'til I saw the little routine you guys had going out back. Now I've got no idea."

Yeah. Jesse never saw her make a call. He'd been watching her reflection the whole time. "You think somebody recognized me?"

Saul shrugs again. "Could be."

Skyler doubles over, resting her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor in defeat.

Saul looks at her, then tells Jesse, "We're gonna have to pack up and get outta here as soon as she's ready."

"Where to?" Jesse asks. And then, a second later, "Wait—Whaddya mean, 'as soon as she's ready'?"

On cue, the glass of water slips from Skyler's hand and she slumps forward.

Jesse barely manages to catch her before she goes tumbling to the floor. "What the hell?!" he cries in alarm, hauling her back to lay her down onto the mattress. He takes her by the chin to examine her face and finds her passed out completely. He looks to the fallen glass of water, then up at Saul, outraged. "Did you just _roofie_ her?!"

"Uh, yeah," Saul answers. _Duh_. He's already tucking his gun away. "Come on. She'll be fine. Let's move it."

"Jesus…" Jesse fusses over her for another moment, checking her breathing and her pulse until Saul seizes him by the arm and drags him away from her.

" _Now_ ," Saul stresses. And Jesse, knowing that the police will soon finish searching the club and go on to searching elsewhere, has no choice but to move.  
  


###### 

  
"I'm sorry it took so long," Marie offers, wearing a tight smile as she follows Hoffman and Van Oster down the hall. She's tempted to give further explanation for the delay, but if she tells them she had to wait for Flynn to get home so he could babysit his sister, then she also has to explain why Skyler wasn't around to care for the baby herself, which will lead to a lie about how Skyler's working late. And though that excuse works for Flynn, it's an entirely different matter to tell that same lie to federal agents.

Van Oster glances back to her with a smile as false as her own. It's not reassuring.

They open the door to one of the interview rooms, where Ramey's already waiting. He closes the file that's spread in front of him and stands up to greet her. "Mrs. Schrader, I'm glad you got here safely. We were starting to get worried about you."

Hoffman and Van Oster take up positions by the door and Marie gets the distinct impression that she's surrounded. Trapped, even. But this isn't the first time she's been in this type of situation. She keeps her cool, taking her seat across from Ramey and smoothing down her skirt. "I didn't know there was any hurry," she says.

"No?" Ramey asks, skeptical, as he settles back into his chair.

Marie's gaze flits to the file beneath his folded hands before she meets his eyes. "Agent Hoffman mentioned something about Jesse Pinkman?" Her tone is innocent, as if she's confused about what exactly that might mean.

"You did approach me three days ago with some concerns over his whereabouts," Ramey reminds her.

"And you assured me that it wasn't a concern," Marie replies, again with a taut smile and a flutter of her eyelashes.

Ramey nods. The passive aggression doesn't faze him. "Does the name Todd Alquist mean anything to you?"

Marie picks her chin up. "He was one of the dead gang members," she answers confidently. Everyone knows that. It's even been on the news.

"Had you heard his name before, prior to the discovery of his body at the scene?"

"Hank mentioned him." It's not entirely a lie. He was in the notes Hank had taken while filming Jesse Pinkman's confession tape, but he'd never actually spoken a word about Alquist to Marie. "Pinkman told him that Todd Alquist was responsible for some murder. A little boy in McKinley County."

That's caught Ramey slightly off-guard. It's far more information than he was expecting. "Hank discussed the details his investigation with you?"

"For God's sake, there was no one else he could talk to," Marie sighs, exasperated. "Steve was the only other person who'd believe him, and I'm the one who had to convince him to go to Steve at all. He was terrified of the threats Walt had made."

Ramey's eyes travel briefly to Hoffman and Van Oster before returning to Marie. "When we spoke, you were confident that Pinkman was still alive. Was that because of something Hank had shared with you?"

"No," Marie replies, reaching up to rub at her temple. "I was very emotional that day. It's like you said, I was looking for answers anyplace I could find them."

"Your instincts were remarkable, Mrs. Schrader," Ramey tells her, his tone a bit dry. "We found Pinkman's fingerprints on Todd Alquist's car, abandoned outside Tucumcari that same day."

Not _her_ instincts. Skyler's. "Maybe I should be on your payroll," Marie remarks sarcastically. "I seem to remember Hank also mentioning that you don't presume someone's dead until there's a body. Maybe if you'd all taken things more seriously, you would've found Pinkman himself and not just a couple fingerprints."

Ramey chuckles and nods. "I admit, your investigation skills could surpass those of our best men." He opens the file in front of him, shuffling papers. "I wonder if the same can be said of your sister?"

Marie's eyes drop to the file and she loses some of the color in her face. "What?" she asks, a frog in her throat.

"Skyler White. We know she hasn't been at home or gone to work since our last meeting. That's about seventy-two hours, isn't it?" Ramey glances back to Hoffman and Van Oster, who nod in confirmation.

Marie's silent, knowing better than to try to spin a lie at this point.

Ramey turns the file around, open so that Marie can read the papers there. On the left is a bank receipt and a rental car form. On the right, a towing form with the license plate number of Marie's own indigo Volkswagen. "We found your car, Mrs. Schrader," Ramey tells her as she looks over the paperwork. "In Santa Fe, which is coincidentally where your sister cleared out her bank account and proceeded to rent a silver Ford Taurus. That was yesterday morning."

Again, Marie remains silent.

"How long did you plan to stay quiet about your sister's disappearance?" Ramey asks her.

Marie knows well enough that this line of questioning requires a lawyer, so she refuses to answer. Instead, she asks, "Did you find her?"

Ramey reaches across the table to turn the page to a freshly-faxed copy of a photograph. A silver Taurus. "Our boys in Las Vegas just sent this over about half an hour ago. They found the rental car outside of a strip club. Pretty odd place for somebody like your sister, wouldn't you say? That's typically the kind of location we'd expect to locate our male suspects. Jesse Pinkman, for example."

Marie presses, " _Did_ you find her?"

"Not yet," Ramey replies, the humor disappearing from his face. "That's exactly why you're here, Mrs. Schrader. As it stands, we all want the same thing, don't we?"

Marie's not so sure. "What's that?"

"To bring your sister back."


	7. Route 93

Gnawing on his lower lip, Saul hastily punches a series of numbers into the payphone's keypad. He's in trouble. Bigger trouble than even Jesse can guess—and thank God for that, at least. If Jesse had any inkling of what was really going on, Saul suspects he'd be a dead man. As the other line rings and rings in his ear, Saul sweeps his eyes over the parking lot, searching for any signs of the police.

It's a cheerful, sunny morning in Kingman, Arizona. The parking lot of the Hill Top Motel remains mostly empty, with only three other guests apparently staying in the rooms on the opposite end of the strip. Saul's counting his luck on that, too, though it's not surprising to find mostly-vacant spots like these now that summer's over and tourist season's done.

The phone keeps ringing and ringing without answer. Each shrill tone sends his blood pressure rising. His guy isn't the type to let a call go unanswered… But then—even bounty hunters have to sleep sometime, right?

Saul turns toward the street, instead. They've been at this motel all night without incident, but he can't rule out the possibility of being followed. After all, Jesse followed him in Tucumcari. And Skyler followed them all the way from godforsaken Santa Rosa. At this point, he shouldn't be shrugging off the possibility of a lurking SWAT team or a surveillance van.

Nothing there, either. There's a red Chevy pickup truck parked in the lot across the street, but it's coated in dust and looks like it probably stopped running ages ago. A big sign across the windshield declares it **FOR SALE: $1700**. It's not even worth that much, in Saul's opinion.

The line kicks to voicemail finally, the default: "You've reached seven-zero-two—" Saul hangs up with a sigh and shoves his handkerchief away before dragging his palm down his face. Great. What now? There's no way in hell he's leaving a message that mentions Jesse Pinkman's name. No way he's leaving any message at all without a voice scrambler. But he _does_ need to contact the guy before any rash decisions can be made—on either end.

He'll try again in an hour, he decides. Closer to noon is probably when guys like this get out of bed, anyway.  
  


###### 

  
Skyler returns to consciousness slowly, dragged there by the throbbing in her temples... though from the sluggish heaviness in her limbs, the rest of her body would clearly prefer to remain asleep. As her awareness spreads to her surroundings, she realizes her arms won't move even when she wills them to; she's bound at the wrists, her hands tied behind her back while she lies on her stomach. When she opens her eyes, she can only make out blurred shapes beyond her blindfold. And when she tries to swallow, she discovers a strip of cloth between her lips. 

Someone else is in the room with her, she realizes instantly. She can hear him pacing back and forth past the foot of the bed she's lying on, and she tilts her head in an attempt to get a look at him past the periphery of her blindfold.

That small movement apparently catches his attention. The footsteps halt, then change direction as he comes up the side of the bed. "Are you awake?" Jesse Pinkman asks. His voice has a broken quality to it, shaky, and she wonders if he's high or otherwise deranged. He doesn't sound normal.

She goes still and doesn't respond, afraid that he might drug her again if he thinks she's conscious.

He's not fooled. He leans over the bed and tugs the blindfold away from her eyes. There's a strange care to the way he does it, hooking a finger under it to avoiding snagging her hair. Light floods her vision as the cloth falls away. Hours have passed, the sun already high enough to spill through the translucent window shades and onto the both of them. When her eyes come into focus, she finds herself staring right into his face.

She hadn't noticed, in the dark of the night, how disfigured and worn that face has become. Her stomach knots at the sight of his scars where the sunlight touches them. To think, last night she'd almost believed he might not be a monster. But here's the evidence of all his inner ugliness finally drawn onto his skin where everyone else can see it.

Skyler looks past him, taking her opportunity to memorize the area before she's blinded again. They're in a motel room, but one that's clearly different from the room she was taken into last night. Wood paneling. Cheap furniture. Just the one bed that she's currently occupying.

A low moan escapes her throat as her stomach turns again. She feels like she's going to be sick.

Pinkman seems to have some experience with these drugs, because he anticipates that and pulls the gag off her mouth, whispering, "Please don't scream. Please don't—"

Skyler immediately lets out a yell as loud as her hoarse voice can manage, and he smothers it with his hand, pushing her head back down against the pillow.

"The only person who's out there is Saul," he tells her. "I don't want him coming in here, okay? He still has the gun. Please..."

Skyler glares up at him, the effect of her rage dulled by the gathering tears in her eyes. She's just as afraid as she is angry, and that's the most frustrating of all. She has no power here, not even over her own fear, when he's the one who should be afraid. She was supposed to take him down, not be taken hostage.

At her stillness, his hand eases its pressure against her mouth. "I'm gonna let go now."

She doesn't cry out this time, having the sense that he won't tolerate it twice. He only mentioned Saul's gun, but he's likely carrying one himself. When she speaks, it's a whisper, "What did you do to me?"

Pinkman's gaze darts over her body before he seems to realize his position and recoils, shrinking away from the bed to stand with his back nearly up against the wall. "Saul drugged you," he explains, "so we could move you. I swear to God, that's all. We needed you to sleep so we could get outta there easy, so you wouldn't try anything. Mrs. White, I promise I—"

"Don't call me that," she spits.

He concedes with a jerking nod of his head and returns to his point: "Nothing else happened. You been sleeping, I been keeping watch. Saul had to make a call, but he's gonna be back any minute now."

"Where are we now?"

"Arizona. But he doesn't want you to know that, Mrs.—" He cuts himself off this time. "Look, he figures you'll go straight to the police. That's why the whole..." He gestures to her bindings, his face pale, as if he might be a bit nauseated, himself. "But I don't think you will. You're dodging the cops, too, right? I think we can talk about this. We can work something out."

Skyler's face hardens. "I'm not working anything out with you, Jesse Pinkman."

He said the wrong thing. Jesse swallows, trying to find the right way to put it. "You wanted to kill me, right? Because you're... Are you scared? Because of what the news said?"

"You kidnapped me at gunpoint, drugged me in a motel room, tied me up, gagged me and blindfolded me—and you can't figure out why I'm scared?"

Jesse looks as if she physically hit him over the head with something. He sinks down to the floor, crouching there with his knees pulled up to his chest, dazed and drawing inward. How did this happen? He presses his palm to his mouth and holds it there for a while, pushing back the bile that rises in his throat. Of all the endings he imagined, it wasn't supposed to go like this. He would have rather died.  
  


###### 

  
Marie nods goodbye to the agent as he takes up his position outside the front door. She enters the house as quietly as she can, but the moment the door shuts behind her, Flynn steps into the foyer to meet her. "Aunt Marie?" He's angry with her. That much is clear. "Where the hell were you? I kept trying to call and—" 

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her eyes averted. "I was at headquarters. They took my phone."

"Why would they take your phone? Didn't they know—" That thought's interrupted as another one hits him. "Where's mom? Didn't she come back with you?"

"Keep your voice down so you don't wake your sister."

"Why don't you let me worry about Holly, since I'm the only one taking care of her anyway," Flynn snaps back.

Marie flinches at that and turns away.

"Where's mom?" Flynn demands once more.

"Let's sit down." Marie brushes past him, hurrying into the kitchen. Rather than head for the table, she goes for the coffee machine and starts up a brew. She's been up all night and she doesn't imagine Flynn will allow her a chance to sleep now that she's home.

Flynn hovers impatiently by the bar, refusing to sit until she does, watching her back as she goes about preparing two cups. When she's finally done mixing Splenda into hers, she turns around to carry both mugs to the breakfast table.

Flynn doesn't touch his. He takes his seat and glares at her from across the table.  
Marie takes a sip, bracing herself before she begins, "I'm going to tell you something. The truth. And you can't tell anybody else or your mother is going to be in a lot of trouble."

Flynn's response, naturally, is: "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Marie brings her fingertips to her temple. "I know. _I know_ , trust me, I—I can't believe she's doing this to us again. But she doesn't deserve the witch hunt they're about to start, either. So hear me out on this one, okay, Flynn?"  
  


###### 

  
Pinkman finally lifts his gaze. Not to her, but to the window. "I'll let you go," he whispers, so quiet she can hardly hear him from her place on the bed. 

"'If'..?" Because there must be an _if_. Pinkman didn't kidnap her only to let her go.

"If you're quiet," he answers, with a nod toward the door. "I dunno what he'll do if he hears you. He ain't working for me. The drugs—That was him, I swear. I woulda never done that to you. All this... I got nothing to lose, but he's still got everything. Nobody knows his part in what happened. You didn't even talk about him."

How much of that she believes, she's not sure. But she assures Jesse quickly, "Walt's people came after me. They threatened the kids. I couldn't say anything—"

Jesse raises a hand to silence her. "I know. That was Todd Alquist. And he wasn't working for any of us when he did that. He was protecting a lady named Lydia Rodarte-Quayle." Jesse remembers the entire incident from the other side, listening to Todd discuss it. "But now they're both dead. You're safe from them, and that's what Saul's worried about. Now that everybody else is gone, he's worried you'll talk to save your own skin."

"Not _everyone's_ gone," Skyler corrects, with a pointed look at Jesse himself.

Jesse looks her in the eye. "I don't want anything to do with you or your family," he promises. "Saul's working on getting me outta the country. Then I'm gone for good and he goes back to his old life. It was supposed to be a nice, clean break. But now you showed up and he's got a problem with that."

"You don't?"

He shrugs. "Like I said, I got nothing to lose. They're already after me. Nothing you tell 'em is gonna change what happens to me."

"Aren't you afraid I'll kill you?" It's both a threat and an honest question.

Jesse smiles ruefully. "Nah. I ain't afraid of that."

Skyler examines that smile. He hadn't exactly begged for his life, had he? Not even when she had a gun to his head. He'd been worried about what murdering him might do to her, not to him.

"Untie me," she orders.

Jesse glances at the door, conflicted, but it doesn't take him long to decide. He climbs to his feet and steps around the bed to unknot the handkerchief that's tied around her wrists. "I'm really sorry about that," he murmurs. But that means so little, doesn't it? Todd used to apologize to him while doing the same.

As soon as she's free, Skyler scrambles off the bed and to her feet, standing opposite of Jesse and ready to fight him if he comes near her again. But Jesse remains where he is, Saul's gaudy handkerchief clutched in his hand. Skyler glances down at it and recognizes it immediately. Jesse was likely telling the truth about this being Saul's idea.

In that same moment, she notices the red marks around Jesse's wrists. "What happened to—?"

The door swings open and Saul walks in with a tray of coffees and a Dunkin Donuts bag. When he looks up and notices Skyler, unbound and on her feet, he nearly drops everything. "Whoa, what—Jesse! What's she doing outta bed?!"

Jesse steps forward, making sure he's between Saul and Skyler. "We're letting her go, Saul."

Saul scoffs. "Right. We're letting the lady who just tried to kill you walk around like she owns the place. There's a good idea." He sets their breakfast down on the table and puts his hands on his hips. "Hell, why don't I just catch a bus back to Albuquerque and leave you two lovebirds to sort this out on your own!"

_Lovebirds?_ Jesse and Skyler both narrow their eyes.

"Yeah," Saul emphasizes with a nod. "I saw your little stunt back there, Romeo. And I'm starting to feel like the third wheel here. Frankly, I'm not sure what you need me for when you're ignoring all my advice, anyway."

"You're not here to give advice, Saul," Jesse growls. "You're here to get me my papers. And speaking of that—What's the news? You were supposed to be making a call, not grabbing doughnuts."

"What, I can't do both?" Saul glances past Jesse to Skyler, addressing her now: "Relax. Despite all appearances, you're among friends. And not in police custody, so you're welcome for that. Trust me, it would've been a lot easier for all of us to just ditch you in Vegas."

Skyler presses her lips into a taut line, biting back whatever thoughts she might be having about that.

Jesse's getting irritated with Saul's dodging. "What about—?"

Saul holds up a finger. "I'm getting to that. Look, I'm guessing neither of you caught the morning news, so I'll break it down for you: Skyler here is in mucho trouble for fleeing in the middle of an investigation. So, yeah. You can kiss your plea deals goodbye, Ms. Lambert. The same shitstorm that's forecast to rain down on Jesse is now blowing in your direction."

Jesse looks back to Skyler, whose face is frozen in resolution. None of this is a surprise to her. She made her choice long before this.

Saul spreads his hands in a gesture that's familiar to both of them. It's the same one he used to use in his commercials. That _it's all okay, I've solved all your problems_ gesture. "Here's the good news!: My guy's agreed to set Skyler up with an escape route, too."

That takes Jesse by surprise. "For real?"

"For real. It's easier, as a matter of fact. Married couple on a honeymoon adventure. What's a better excuse to leave the country? Get hitched and get past border patrol without a hitch."

"You expect me to leave the country," Skyler utters in disbelief, "with _him?_ "

Saul chuckles. "I'm sorry, did you miss the part where you're a fugitive facing twenty-five-to-life? Look, I don't care what you do once you get to Mexico. My business is getting you there. You can kill each other later."

"I have a _family_ , Saul."

"Yeah, and unless you wanna spend the rest of your life talking to your family through a pane of bulletproof glass while an ex-mud wrestler named Charlene breathes down the back of your neck, I'd seriously consider this offer."

Jesse bows his head. He hadn't expected Saul to even try to put something like this together. It means a lot that he did. That it wasn't something worse. "It's a good plan," he murmurs, giving Skyler a reluctant glance. "We'll get you set up someplace nice. We'll find a way to get your kids to you."

"Look, we've got a few hours 'til it's time to meet up with my guy," Saul sighs. He waves a hand toward the Dunkin Donuts goods. "Let's all relax, eat our breakfast, and consider our options."

Jesse picks up a random coffee cup and takes the first drink without waiting for direction from Saul. If any of these are drugged, he expects Saul to make some kind of move to stop him. But Saul doesn't, and Jesse turns to look at Skyler again with a nod of reassurance. It's safe.

Skyler gives Saul a wary look before stepping forward. She can't trust either of them, but Jesse's the one who's in the same position she's in, and he's the one she has to stay close to. Best to follow his lead.  
  


###### 

  
Flynn sits back in his chair, his mouth agape in shock. "So you lied. You lied to the police." 

"Well..." Marie wrings her hands. "Yes, but—"

"But what? _What_ , Aunt Marie? When did that ever fix anything for us, huh? You're supposed to—You're supposed to be _better_ than this!"

"I know!" she cries, her voice cracking. "I didn't want this, either! But I can't let your mom go to jail. She's my _sister_."

"She's a _criminal_ ," Flynn corrects. "Just like dad."

"No." Marie gives a firm shake of her head. "No, she's not. Not like they think she is. She's not thinking clearly. And she's in major trouble. The story the DEA's cooked up... It's all wrong. It's politics. It's the entire reason Hank had to try to go after your father on his own. They need someone to hang and they've decided that person is going to be your mother. And I can't stand by and let that happen."

As Flynn's panic rises, so does his voice, "Mom… Mom knows where Jesse Pinkman is and she hasn't told anybody. Not us, not the police… I mean, why—why would she follow him? What's she going to do?"

Marie rises from her seat and walks around the breakfast table to sit right beside Flynn. She lays her hands over his. "Sweetheart, we don't know what happened. I don't wanna scare you, but we don't even know if it was your mom that left that message. It could've been Pinkman himself."

Flynn goes quiet again, a solemnness coming over his features. "You're saying… Maybe mom was kidnapped?"

"Ramey wants to assume the worst about her," Marie says, "but I believe in your mom. I believe she's learned from her mistakes. And right now, if we tell them she's trying to find Jesse deliberately, they're going to assume she's working _with_ Pinkman. It's the story that works best for the DEA. The one that gets the case closed and gets the media off their backs."

"But what if mom's hurt?" Flynn asks, his voice trembling.

Marie squeezes his hands. "The DEA wasn't there for Hank and they won't be there for Skyler, either. We have to trust that she'll find her way back to us. Your mom's tough as nails." She gives him a weak smile. "And believe me, from what I remember of Pinkman… He won't stand a chance against her. She's gonna bring him back here and prove to everybody that she isn't what they think she is."  
  


###### 

  
A coil of smoke rises from the cigarette between Skyler's fingers. "Why does he keep using a payphone?" she asks, watching the door from her seat on the bed. "Why doesn't he just call from the room?" 

Jesse, still seated at the table with his now-cold coffee in hand, follows her gaze. "The room's in his name. It's just a thing he does. Plausible deniability or something. If the cops were listening in, they can't put him in that spot with any kinda guarantee."

Skyler turns her eyes to Jesse. "Do you trust him?"

Jesse snorts. "Hell no. I just trust he's scared enough to do what I tell him to do."

"Funny," she hums. "He should be scared of you, but I shouldn't be."

"You been following me. Did it look like I was going anywhere near your family?"

"You were heading from Tucumcari to Albuquerque when I found you in Santa Rosa," Skyler points out. "I have no idea what your intentions were before I spooked you into heading north."

Jesse sets his cup aside and sits forward. "All I want," he says, locking eyes with Skyler, "is to stay out of a cell."

Skyler smiles at him with a trace of malice. "Do you really think Saul can save you?"

"I think he can save _both_ of us. And he will."

She cants her head to one side, skeptical. "Don't you think it's strange," she asks, her voice growing lighter, "that the water he gave me last night was already drugged?"

Jesse's eyebrows knit together. "What're you talking about?"

"He took it right off the table. It's the last thing I remember. I was afraid he was going to do something with the gun, but he grabbed the water instead and handed it to me like that."

"That stuff messes with your memory," Jesse murmurs, though he feels a chill in his heart that tells him she's right. How eager Saul had been to get him to try the chow mein before he left. He turns a glance back to the coffee he was just drinking.

"It would've kicked in by now," Skyler assures him. "Maybe he used the last of it on me."

"Or maybe you're just wrong." But Jesse knows she isn't. He can feel it, the same as he felt sure that the ricin cigarette was stolen, not lost.

And Skyler sees the suspicion in his eyes. "Should we really be following him to wherever he's taking us?"

"If he wanted to call the cops, he'da done it by now."

Skyler sits back, placid and thoughtful now. She almost looks comfortable. "Whatever he's doing, we should be ready for it."  
  


###### 

  
After so many hours in the car, Jesse feels like they ought to be in Mexico already. Instead, they're driving all the way in the opposite direction. He glances across to Saul, who insisted on being in the driver's seat today. "What's the deal with your guy? He couldn't meet us someplace closer?" 

"The police made him nervous," Saul chuckles, sounding pretty nervous himself. "He wanted to make sure we were somewhere remote. Really remote."

"The entire state's a desert. One hour into this and we were already somewhere remote."

Saul rolls his eyes. "Relax, kid. Jesus. You're the first person I've ever known who's complained about getting to take a trip to the Grand Canyon. Considering this might be your last chance to see it before you're outta here, why don't you just sit back and take in the sights? Let me worry about my guy."

Jesse turns to look over his shoulder at Skyler, who's in the back seat. She pulls her eyes away from Saul to meet Jesse's gaze, a silent understanding between them: Saul's going to kill one or both of them when they reach their destination, so they'll have to take him down first.

The road twists and dips down toward an overlook on the cliffside. Saul brings the car to a stop behind a wall of red rock, wiping sweat from his brow before turning off the engine. "Well, here we are. Who's ready for a nice little sunset picnic while we wait?"

"Your guy sure likes being late," Jesse mutters as he opens the passenger side door and climbs out. He turns to open the back door, too, and Skyler joins him on his side of the station wagon. Jesse gets in front of her, putting himself between her and Saul again as they walk around the car.

The guy actually packed sandwiches for them, which Jesse wouldn't eat if his life depended on it. If Saul's got any drugs left, they must be in that food. He leads the pair away from the wagon, down a path that leads to the campsite itself.

The view is incredible. Both Jesse and Skyler slow to a halt when they find the panorama waiting for them on the other side of that wall of rock. The warm light of the setting sun casts deep purple shadows into the canyon, every dip and curve of rock dramatic in its contrast. If Saul means for them to die here, then he went to a lot of trouble to pick something beautiful as the last thing they see.

But Jesse's beginning to doubt that assumption altogether. Maybe Saul actually, really, isn't up to anything at all.

He's noticed they've stopped following him, so he turns to call back, "Hey, the view's even better from down here." He points to the perch of rock he's standing on, and as Jesse and Skyler move closer, they can see it's a perfect vista looking down onto the Colorado River, a mile or so beneath them.

"Jesus, Saul," Jesse whispers as lowers himself onto his knees.

"It was worth the drive, right?" Saul nudges him in the side. "Right?"

"I never knew you were such a romantic," Skyler remarks dryly, sitting a few feet away from them.

Saul waggles his eyebrows. "Give me a chance and I might surprise you."

"Saul," Jesse warns, frowning. Does he need to point out that her husband literally only just died a few days ago?

"I'm joking!" He starts unrolling the shopping bag that contains their meal, pulling out a six-pack. "Okay, who wants beer?"

Jesse and Skyler exchange another glance, but the cans look sealed. They must be safe. Jesse reaches for one first, willing to be the test subject. "How long are we gonna be waiting here?"

Saul shrugs. "What's the rush? You'll never see a more gorgeous sunset."

"I'm just trying to figure out what the plan is." Jesse pops the can open and it hisses, just like it should. Probably not tampered with. "I mean, you been kinda dodgy all day."

"Hoo boy," Saul sighs, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. "You sure you don't wanna have a couple drinks first?"

"Saul..."

Saul smacks his lips and spreads his hands, looking helplessly between Skyler and Jesse. "Don't get mad at me, okay? Because I'm doing the best I can. I warned you, right? That it'd be tough to get you outta the country? You know I warned you."

Jesse puts the can down as the understanding hits him: "...Your guy's not coming."

"Well, can you blame him? After she—" Saul gestures wildly in Skyler's direction. "—went and got herself involved, and we had the entire LVMPD descend upon our hotel?"

"Don't pin this on her."

"Who else am I supposed to pin it on?"

Jesse raises a hand. "Look, just… Stop. We can figure something else out."

"Kid," Saul laughs feebly, shaking his head. "There's nothing else to figure out. That's all I had."

Skyler speaks up, at last, to ask in a low voice, "Then what are we doing here?"

"Running," Saul admits with sagging shoulders. "And we might as well get used to it, 'cause that's all we're gonna be doing from here on out."

A grim silence passes over them. Jesse turns his gaze out to the canyon, to the pink sky above. Is he really up to that? Hopping from one hotel to the next—if he's lucky and not sleeping out in the desert itself? Always looking over his shoulder and jumping at the sound of sirens? Saul's sure to abandon him. If not tonight, then tomorrow or the next day. And he'll be lucky if Skyler doesn't kill him before morning.

Maybe he's supposed to give up now. Maybe that's why Saul really brought him here.

Jesse shifts closer to the edge of the rock, bowing to look down the cliff and see how far that drop really goes. As soon as he lowers his head, something cracks behind him and a bullet goes whizzing past. It takes his baseball cap with it, tattered cloth floating down into the ravine. Jesse loses his balance and nearly goes rolling right over the cliff before Saul catches him by the arm and pulls him back.

Both of them turn to look at Skyler, expecting to find her with a gun pointed at Jesse, but there's nothing in her hands and she's looking somewhere else: back toward the area where they'd parked the station wagon, where the rock wall obscures the path they'd taken. "Someone—" she begins, before another crack sounds out and a second bullet grazes the rock beside her with a burst of dust and pebbles.

Jesse sees it now, too: the nozzle of a silenced pistol peeking just around that wall of stone.

Saul, somehow less disoriented than the other two, thinks fast enough to sweep the remains of their picnic over the side of the cliff—effectively eliminating their fingerprints from the scene. As he comes back up, he returns fire with his own gun. "Get to those caves over there," he hisses at Jesse, pointing to a dip in the rocks to their left. "I'll cover you."

_I'll cover you_ are three words Jesse never expected to hear Saul Goodman say, but he doesn't stop to question them. Throwing an arm around Skyler, he leads the way to those caves and plunges into the darkness.

"Who is it?" Skyler asks in a whisper while Jesse pulls her further into the cave. "Who's up there?"

"Don't know." He fumbles for his lighter. "Don't think it's police. They woulda had to—"

Another round of loud gunfire echoes above, probably from Saul's unsilenced gun. Skyler presses closer to Jesse in the dark, and he feels her hand reach into his jacket to pull out his pistol. He doesn't stop her.

He finds his lighter, finally, and flips it open to illuminate the cave. There's a path that leads down and around. He's pretty sure it'll come up on the other side of the wall, somewhere near the station wagon. "This way," he whispers to Skyler.

"What about Saul?"

"He knew about this place. I think he knows where it leads, too. He's buying us some time."

There's nothing to do but accept it. Skyler follows Jesse through the labyrinth of the cave until they come to a steep incline that's going to take both hands to climb. Above, at least, they can see the twilit sky. Jesse extinguishes his lighter and gestures for Skyler to go first. She steps forward and he sweeps her into his arms, lifting her up so that she doesn't have to let go of the gun. After a moment of scanning the area, she scrambles through the exit.

It takes Jesse more time. The rocks are so smooth that it's difficult to get a good foothold. In the ten or fifteen seconds it takes him to get out of the cave, he's heard several more gunshots from Saul's direction.

He emerges just in time to find Skyler taking aim at someone. Unable to call out to stop her, he throws his hand out instead, knocking her aim off. In her surprise, she fires—but misses her headshot, hitting the target in the shoulder instead.

Whoever it is, it's enough to get him to drop his gun and fall to the ground.

Skyler turns on Jesse, outraged. "What the hell are you—"

"What if that's a cop?!" Jesse hisses. "You trying for the electric chair?"

"Jesus Christ, both of you!" Saul's now making his way out of the cave behind them, and the moment he's on his feet, he waves them toward the station wagon. "Go, go, go!"

The man by the wall grunts, struggling to get to his feet and at the same time groping at the ground for his gun. Skyler and Jesse duck into the station wagon while Saul grabs the keys from his pocket. With one last glance to be sure the man's still down, he ducks into the driver's seat and peels away.

As they're making their way back up the road, the headlights sweep over a truck parked along the side of it.

A dusty red pickup marked **FOR SALE: $1700**.


	8. Route 95

"What do you mean you don't have surveillance cameras?" Van Oster demands, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he shuffles through papers. "LVMPD confirmed there were cameras on-site."

Hoffman shakes his head. They went over this earlier. "Told you," he mouths silently.

Van Oster doesn't see him, too distracted between the paperwork and the call. "What the hell kind of security is that?" he practically yells into the receiver. "I know you people rake in thousands of dollars in one night. Don't you think it's worth the investment?"

With a disapproving arch of his eyebrow, Hoffman stuffs the final bite of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth. Van Oster's overstepping it, but he knows it won't do any good to correct him.

"Yeah, well, you know what? Maybe I _should_ be telling you how to do your job. It sounds like you could use the professional advice, buddy. And let me tell you something else: If I find out you're hiding evidence and obstructing this investigation, I'll—" Van Oster pauses and pulls the phone away from his ear. "Did he just hang up on me? I think he just hung up on me."

"I'd hang up on you, too." Hoffman rolls his sandwich wrapper into a ball and tosses it toward the garbage can. He misses, the ball landing on the floor a foot away from its target. "... _Damn_."

Van Oster sighs, sinking into his chair and throwing his papers down onto the desk. "Did Vegas send us anything else yet?"

"Not yet," Hoffman replies, echoing that sigh. "I was thinking I'd catch a little shut-eye while we wait for those e-mails to come through."

"I'm gonna get on the next flight to McCarran." It's out of Van Oster's mouth the moment he thinks of it, and then he nods to himself in confirmation. "That's what I'm gonna do."

Hoffman pulls a face. "Would you stop, already?"

Van Oster shakes his head and picks up his phone again, beginning to dial. "Every second we waste over here diddling ourselves, Pinkman and White are getting further and further away from us. By noon they might even be outta the country. Assuming they aren't already."

"We've got boots on the ground already. You're not gonna get it done any faster than they are."

"Well, I'm gonna try. Something's gotta give." Van Oster raises the phone to his ear.

"—Um," interrupts a soft voice. It's one of the secretary girls, standing at the office door and wringing her hands. "Agent Hoffman? Agent Van Oster?"

Van Oster puts his hand over the receiver, looking up. "Something from Vegas?"

The secretary shakes her head. "No, it's... Flynn White's here to see you."

  


###### 

  


"I see lights." Jesse's eyes are on the side mirror, watching as a pair of headlights pop over the horizon. They're gaining quickly, heading toward the station wagon at least twenty miles per hour faster than the speed limit.

Skyler turns in her seat to look back. "It can't be him, can it? It's been almost an hour."

"We'll find out," Saul utters. They're about to pass an exit, and he turns the wheel abruptly, just in the knick of time. The wheels screech and Jesse and Skyler both go flying off-balance.

"Christ!" Jesse growls. "Are you trying to snap my neck here?"

"Wear your damn seatbelt." Saul doesn't sound too concerned. Or rather, he sounds too exhausted to be concerned. There's an uncharacteristic waver to his voice.

"I don't think it's following us," Skyler reports from the backseat. "They didn't turn off the highway."

"Yay," comes Saul's flat response, totally devoid of energy.

Jesse glances at the mirror again. "Should we turn around?"

Saul doesn't respond. Maybe he didn't hear.

Jesse turns to face him this time. "Saul, should we—?"

The car gives another sharp swerve, and this time they're heading straight for the rocks. Saul's hands aren't even on the wheel anymore, Jesse realizes with a cry of alarm, and he seizes control out of pure reflex to steer them out of their collision course. "Saul!" he's yelling now. "Saul, what the _fuck?_ "

Saul's body slumps forward before he jerks awake at the sound of Jesse's voice in his ear. "Sh-Shit…" he mumbles. His hand gropes blindly for the gear stick, the car slowing to a stop.

"What's going on?" Skyler asks, sitting forward.

"You need a Red Bull, you shoulda said something," Jesse snaps at Saul. "Come on, man. Switch. I'll drive." Which isn't up to a vote. Jesse's already climbing out of the car, and when he crosses to the other side, Saul still hasn't gotten out. Jesse jerks the door open and grabs Saul by the shoulder.

There's something very wrong about the way Saul's head lolls to one side.

Panic rises up in Jesse, who crouches down and switches on the interior light. "No—" There's blood smeared all over the seat, soaked through Saul's shirt. Jesse hadn't been able to see it before, in the dark. "No, come on…" He tears his eyes from the blood to Saul's face. He's unconscious now, his skin pallid and clammy. Jesse seizes him by the cheek, shaking him.

Jesse doesn't notice Skyler's out of the car until he feels her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him out of the way. "Let me see him."

But Jesse doesn't want to let go. His voice rises, " _Saul!_ " As if yelling at him could possibly revive him. "Get the hell up. Get up!"

Skyler's grip tightens and she hurls Jesse aside, forcing her way through. The wound is obvious enough now that the light's shining onto it: a gash in Saul's left side where a bullet must have grazed him. Skyler presses her hand to it and calls over her shoulder, "The whiskey in the back."

"Is he dead? Is he—?"

"Get the whiskey, Pinkman."

Jesse takes one more look at Saul and then snaps into action. He pops the hatch, grabs the alcohol, and returns to Skyler's side. As he sets the bottle onto the ground beside her, he watches Saul's face for some sign of life. Anything to convince him that Saul hasn't just bled to death in the front seat of their car.

"Blanket."

Is Saul dead? What if he's dead? The prospect of it drowns out everything else, and there's a darkness on the edge of Jesse's vision that's closing in. What if he's left another body in his wake? What if he's truly alone now?

Skyler kicks Jesse in the shin. "Get the blanket from the trunk."

Again Jesse moves, and a moment later they're both working to wrap the blanket around Saul, Skyler's hand still keeping pressure on the wound. "I need to cauterize this."

Jesse shoots her an incredulous look. "We gotta get him to a hospital."

"We're not doing that."

"He's gonna die!"

" _We're not doing that_ ," Skyler hisses. "It's a gunshot wound. The police will investigate it. That's the last thing Saul would want."

"The last thing Saul would want is _to die!_ " And in that last syllable, all of Jesse's hysteria rushes out in a sob, inexplicable tears spilling down his cheeks. He has no reason to mourn Saul, yet here he is, already breaking.

Skyler sucks in a breath, suppressing her own apprehension. "Listen to me: He's in shock. He's not dying. What he needs right now is for that wound to be closed. I have to cauterize it if we're going to save him. So let's focus on that, okay, Jesse? Can you focus?"

Jesse's eyes flit to Saul's face. Skyler takes hold of Jesse by the chin and physically draws his attention back. "Can you focus?" she repeats.

Jesse nods, unsure but nevertheless determined. Saul _cannot_ die.

"Help me move him away from the car."

Jesse nods again, and the two of them get to work on hauling Saul's unconscious body out of the driver's seat. They drag him through the sand, his blood leaving a streak of black in the moonlight. Once they're a good distance from the car, Skyler signals for Jesse to stop. She rolls Saul onto his side so the wound is facing them.

"What should I do?" Jesse asks her, feeling completely helpless.

"Get the tire iron from the back and bring the alcohol over here."

Without wasting a moment, Jesse fetches both items and delivers them over to her. She immediately begins soaking the bloody gash in whiskey. "Are you really gonna be able to fix him?" Jesse asks her.

"I got my first aid badge in Girl Scouts," she assures him in a sarcastic tone that leaves him certain she was never even in Girl Scouts, but does well to shut him up. With the wound thoroughly cleaned, she picks up the tire iron. "Now give me your lighter."

"What?" His lighter? "Wait, you're not seriously gonna—"

"You know, the more I have to repeat myself, the more blood he loses."

Jesse swallows and hands over the lighter with shaky fingers. Skyler takes it and starts heating the end of the metal rod. It's slow work, and Saul's wound continues to seep blood while Jesse looks on in muted horror, but Skyler at least looks confident that this will fix him.

Once the metal's glowing hot, she glances at Jesse. "Hold him in case he wakes up."

Jesse obeys, adjusting his position so that he has Saul's head cradled in his lap, hands firmly gripping him by the shoulders. Saul's cold to the touch, looking blue until Skyler brings that red-hot iron closer and touches it to his flesh, searing it with a sickening crackle.

  


###### 

  


"Flynn," Hoffman greets warmly as he sets a mug of coffee down in front of the boy. "It's good to see you again."

Flynn nods politely, but it's a dismissive gesture. He doesn't need these guys coddling him. When Van Oster moves to push a box of doughnuts at him, Flynn shakes his head in refusal. "I'm—I'm okay. Thanks."

Van Oster smiles and settles into a chair beside Hoffman. It's just as well. They don't have time for small talk, either. "How can we help you, Flynn?"

"It's about my mom," Flynn says, confirming their initial suspicions and hopes. Van Oster and Hoffman keep quiet with interest, so Flynn elaborates, "Aunt Marie told me she's been missing the past couple days..."

"Pardon my asking," Hoffman interrupts gently. "Did you not notice your mom wasn't around?"

"I, um... I wasn't home. I was staying at my friend's."

Neither of them have particular reason to doubt that, so they nod. It's easy enough to confirm with the security detail they've had at the Schrader and White homes. "Please go on," Van Oster prompts him.

"Aunt Marie said you found her car in Santa Fe. She said my mom took her money out of the bank and everything. Is that true?"

"It is," Hoffman confirms. "Do you have any idea what your mom might have been thinking? Any plans she may have had?"

Flynn sets his jaw and sits a bit higher in his chair. He doesn't want them to dismiss his next words. For his mom's sake, they have to take this seriously. "I think—I think she's in trouble."

Van Oster leans over to check that the camcorder's recording this. "What makes you say that?"

"Something happened a few months ago. She got scared. When we left the house—the old house on Negra Arroyo... It happened so sudden. She wouldn't say why, but I came home one day and she said we had to get out. We stayed in a hotel for two weeks 'til she found our new place. I think—I think somebody threatened her."

"You think someone came to your house and threatened her?" Van Oster repeats for the camera's benefit. "Why would they do that?"

"I don't—I don't know."

"Can you guess?"

Flynn shakes his head, wary of saying too much.

Hoffman, meanwhile, opens up his folder and shuffles a few papers. He gestures to Van Oster, directing his attention to one of the police reports in Pinkman's file. Van Oster examines it, frowning to himself, then redirects his attention to Flynn. "Do you believe it was your father who threatened your mother?"

Flynn shakes his head. "If I had to guess... I think it was Jesse Pinkman."

Hoffman leans forward, his tone gently pressing, "Why Jesse Pinkman?"

Flynn's gaze drops to the tabletop momentarily. "She just—She didn't like him. Didn't like hearing his name. Anytime he was on the news, she shut off the TV. And the last time I saw her, she was still scared of something, even though dad's..." The thought trails off without resolution.

Van Oster cuts in hastily to spare him, "Did you ever meet Jesse Pinkman in person? Did he ever come around the house while you were there?"

"No. I never met him once. Not even last year."

"But you're sure you'd recognize him if you did see him?"

Flynn nods. "From the pictures, yeah."

Again, in that gentle tone, Hoffman asks, "Do you believe your mother may have known something that Pinkman didn't want us to know? That she may have been threatened into silence?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe he just needed money. Maybe he thought we had some."

Van Oster glances at Hoffman before looking to Flynn again. "Would he be correct in thinking so? Was your mother in possession of your father's money?"

Flynn lets out a rueful snort. "We couldn't… We couldn't even afford Holly's diapers. Aunt Marie had to keep buying them for us."

"I'm sorry about your situation, Flynn," Hoffman says. "This all must be very difficult for you."

"I just want my mom back." Flynn looks up at the two of them with earnest and pleading eyes, his lower lip trembling. "Is she okay? Do you think she's okay?"

"There's no evidence she's been harmed." Hoffman offers a weak smile to Flynn. It's meant to be reassuring, but it's false and strained. "Can you excuse us for a minute? We'll go check to see if any new reports have come in."

Hoffman and Van Oster rise out of their seats in unison, gathering up their papers, and step out of the interview room. Once out of earshot, Van Oster turns to Hoffman. "So... The Cantillo case. You're thinking we're looking at a repeat of that?"

"Menacing women in the middle of the night is starting to sound like Pinkman's M.O." Hoffman flips through his papers again. "Nothing reported stolen at the Cantillo house, but there may have been something the old woman and the son didn't know about. A stash."

"So he takes what he thinks belongs to him, then he hits the road. Maybe he thinks he's entitled to White's money, too."

Hoffman sighs. "It's a lot of conjecture at this point."

"And we won't really know for sure 'til we've got a body." Van Oster kneads his forehead with his knuckles. "What do we tell the kid?"

"Nothing. Let's keep asking questions 'til he feels like he's helped his mom as much as he can, then we'll send him home. God knows he must be feeling helpless right now."

  


###### 

  


Light is all he can see. Light, while the details of the world remain blurred, as good as nothing. In this in-between place, somewhere in the middle of conscious and unconscious, he can feel deep sleep dragging him back down again. Before he can completely slip away, though, his body shifts.

And then Saul is suddenly—completely, unfortunately—awake.

"Motherfuuu..." he hisses, his hand drifting to his side.

Someone slaps it away. "Don't mess with that." Jesse's voice, low but urgent.

Saul turns his head and Jesse's ugly face comes into focus, the halo of the rising sun behind him, shining in through a window that's been missing its glass for a long, long time. "Where the hell are we?" All Saul can tell it used to be a house at some point in the distant past. Now it's little more than a skeleton.

"No goddamn idea," Jesse mutters. "Look, just try and keep still. I don't think you wanna push your luck."

"What happened..?"

It hits him a second later: The Grand Canyon. The gunshot. The car. Oh God. _The car_.

Saul nearly moves to sit up before the pain in his side sharply reminds him to hold still. "I didn't crash the car, did I? Is it totaled?" Are they about to starve to death in the middle of the desert?

Jesse lays his hand on Saul's chest. "The car's—fine. It's fine. Calm the fuck down about the stupid car."

Saul glances at Jesse's hand, then past it to the bandages wrapped around his torso. "Did you do this yourself?"

Jesse shakes his head. "It was Mrs.—" He shuts his eyes briefly, correcting himself, "Skyler did it."

"Where's she now? You didn't let her drive off, did you?"

"Please," Jesse sighs. "She's sleeping. She was up all damn night with you. Jesus, Saul. Why didn't you say something, like, _before_ passing out in the driver's seat?"

"Did _you_ wanna give that guy a chance to catch up with us?" Saul mutters. "Besides, I didn't think it was _this_ bad." And he's still not sure how bad it is, not really. He's not sure he even wants to find out while they're a hundred miles from civilization with no antibiotics or first aid. He's getting anxious just thinking about it.

As if sensing that, Jesse raises a water bottle to Saul's lips. "As long as you're awake, drink something."

Saul nods, lifting his head just enough that Jesse can tip water into it. Once he's drinking, he realizes he's thirsty as hell. He's finished two thirds of the bottle before he stops.

Jesse sets the bottle aside and sits back on his heels. He watches Saul for a moment before he says, "She wouldn't let me take you to a hospital. I thought you were a goner last night."

"Looks like you underestimated ol' Saul Goodman."

Jesse shakes his head. "It's not too late. I can still take you. We could go right now."

It's Saul's turn to shake his head, insistent. Stubborn. "I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Saul, you're anything _but_ fine." The way Jesse's voice breaks surprises the both of them, and it takes Jesse a moment to continue more steadily, "You said it yourself, you know? It's over. It's... There's no point. We'll tell them I shot you. I kidnapped you and I shot you and... You won't get in trouble that way."

"Jesse—"

"It's not worth you dying over, is what I'm saying." Jesse looks away, out the window, at the rolling desert hills. "Too many people already..."

Saul reaches out to touch Jesse's arm, drawing his attention back. "We don't know what's hit the news in the past twelve hours. For all I know, they've got me on the Most Wanted list along with you two. Skyler's right: I can't go to a hospital. If I end up in prison—Christ, I might just be a dead man any way you slice it."

"For what it's worth," speaks a voice over Jesse's shoulder, "I don't think you'll end up dead at all."

They both raise their eyes to Skyler, who's standing in the doorway with mussed hair and crossed arms. She's wearing one of Saul's shirts, her own presumably stained with his blood somewhere. "Get some rest," she tells Jesse. An order rather than a request.

Jesse rises to his feet without argument, giving Saul one last look before shuffling out of the room.

Skyler approaches the bed once he's gone, her steps slow and deliberate while she looks Saul up and down. She takes a seat on the edge of it, rather than the floor. Uncomfortably close, as far as Saul's concerned. Where he'd normally be delighted to be in such close proximity to a beautiful woman, he feels vulnerable with her leaning over him like that. As if she's about to smother him with a pillow. "Do you remember what happened last night?" she asks him.

"The last thing I remember is driving." Saul gives her an uneasy smile. "The kid told me what you did. I think I owe you a thanks or two."

"You might not thank me once you see the scars," Skyler hums, glancing briefly to the makeshift bandages around Saul's torso. "I had to cauterize it to stop the bleeding."

Saul flinches. "Sounds like my beach days are over."

Skyler laughs mirthlessly, a sound deep in her throat that has an unsettling level of menace to it. She doesn't say anything more for a few moments. Saul comes to realize she's listening for movement in the other room, waiting for Jesse to fall asleep. Eventually she leans in closer, dropping her voice to a murmur, "Did you lead him to us on purpose?"

Swallowing, Saul finds his throat remarkably dry. "W-What?"

"The man with the truck. The man who shot you. Did you lead him to us? Did you give him our location? Does he know who we are?"

"I don't—"

Skyler lays her hand over Saul's wound. She doesn't apply any pressure, not yet, but the threat is there, and Saul squirms beneath her palm. "Last chance to tell the truth," she cautions.

"Okay!" he whispers sharply. "Okay, listen to me: I swear I didn't lead him there. But I know who he is."

"He's your guy, isn't he?" Skyler confirms. "But he was never supposed to help us get out of the country, was he? He was an assassin all along."

Saul can't help but laugh, though it manifests as a pained cough. " _Assassin?_ I don't know what movies you've been watching, but... Not an _assassin_ , no. He's a—" And here, Saul lowers his voice again, "He's a good old-fashioned bounty hunter. And he was supposed to help me deal with Pinkman back in Las Vegas. Before, you know, _you_ showed up and things got complicated."

None of this appears to be a surprise to Skyler. "Why him? Why not deal with Pinkman yourself? You had a gun. Or you could have called the police."

Saul wrinkles his nose. Does he really have to spell this out? "You don't think the FBI's going to put the pieces together if I just happen to be the guy who found Jesse Pinkman? I'm not looking to negotiate a deal here. I'm trying not to get caught in the first place. I mean, you've been dealing with the process of plea bargains for the better part of this year. How's that going for you?"

Point taken, though it's not very palatable. Skyler's lips pull back into a sneer. "You're a cockroach to the bitter end, aren't you?"

That raises Saul's hackles. "Pinkman's been threatening to kill me ever since he escaped! Do you think I owe him anything? Do I owe him the rest of my life in prison?"

"You're as guilty as the rest of us," Skyler spits.

"Yeah," Saul shoots back, "but I'm smarter."

"Not smart enough to figure out your bounty hunter wouldn't prefer a three-for-one deal."

He's effectively subdued. Saul turns his eyes away from her, gnawing on his lower lip. Yes, okay. He absolutely should have seen that coming. He should have realized they were being followed since Vegas. But maybe if Skyler hadn't caused such a mess, he would've had enough focus to put that together. Should've, could've, would've. None of it makes a difference now.

"The kid's offering to turn himself in," Saul says at last. He owes her that much. A chance to correct the mistake. "If you wanna get back to your family, I suggest you take him up on that. I'm sure he'll be happy to come up with a story that'll cover you."

Skyler narrows her eyes. It's something to consider. "What about you?"

"Oh, I was never here," Saul scoffs. "If this is the route you're taking, I'll be long-gone before the cops show up."

Her eyes drifting back toward the other room, where Pinkman's hopefully asleep by now, Skyler falls into contemplation. This might be the best solution for all of them. From all that she's seen so far, Pinkman's essentially a dead man already. Not only would her family be safe, but the heat would be off of Skyler, and it isn't as if Pinkman's worse off in jail than he is wandering half-feral around the wilderness like this.

In any case, there's nothing to feel guilty about. He deserves to die for what he's done. If anything, she's being humane.

  


###### 

  


Flynn steps into the foyer of the Schrader home, the front door slamming behind him. The racket brings Marie running into the room. "Oh my God, there you are!" She's clutching her hands over her heart, and Flynn feels a measure of remorse for making her look so pale. She's breathless. "Your school called to say you never showed up and—Flynn, where _were_ you?"

"Downtown," he answers shortly as he steps past her.

"Downtown?" repeats Marie, bewildered. No one had called her with any news. "At HQ? What were you..?"

Flynn sighs, his brow wrinkled with annoyance. "I was... I was giving a statement."

"What?"

"You know. Backing up your story." And he doesn't look happy about it. Either he's a liar or his mom really has been kidnapped, and those are both terrible scenarios. This part of his life was supposed to be over the moment his father died, and yet it goes on and on. "If they—If they find mom, I wanted to make sure they don't shoot her. I wanted them to know it's Jesse Pinkman's fault."

"Flynn..." Marie's heart is breaking at the thought of him enduring all those questions. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You woulda tried to talk me out of it."

It's true. She would have. "But I wouldn't have _stopped_ you. I would've been there. Sweetheart..." Marie reaches out to him.

"I think they believe me," Flynn says, shrugging her off. From the look on his face, the words taste bitter.

Marie looks stricken by what he's implying there. "Why wouldn't they? It's the closest thing we have to the truth."

"Yeah," he replies flatly. He doesn't share her faith in his mother. Flynn shuffles away from her without another word, disappearing into his bedroom.

  


###### 

  


Jesse isn't asleep when Skyler steps out into the main room. In fact, he's nowhere in sight. The sleeping bag's lying on the floor just as she left it when she woke. A knot of dread forms in her stomach and she wonders if he was eavesdropping all along. Just like the windows are missing from the abandoned home, so are all the doors. As quiet as she and Saul remained during their conversation, it's not impossible that he might have heard something.

She follows the scent of cigarette smoke outside, where the harsh midday sun beams down on the desert without mercy. No one's informed the Mojave that autumn's arriving. Outside of the shade, it's nearly a hundred degrees.

Yet there he stands, a good distance from the old miner's house, surveying the sunbleached hills. He seems unaware of her presence until she's right behind him, when the crunch of rocks underfoot draws his gaze back to her. "How's he doing?" he asks her, and it strikes her that Jesse Pinkman has a laughable amount of concern for someone who's advocating so strongly for his betrayal.

"Good enough," she responds. "We'll have to watch him for a fever. I don't know how we'll get him antibiotics if he gets infected, but..."

"We'll find a way," Jesse assures her. Or himself, more likely.

Skyler hums, noncommittal. "Either way, we can't stay here. He needs a real bed. Probably several weeks of rest before any major travel."

"Okay," Jesse agrees. No hesitation. "We'll head into town whenever he's up for it."

"I think that's for the best."

A heavy silence passes between them, Jesse puffing away at his cigarette and Skyler avoiding his gaze, staring at a dead tree on the horizon.

"What do you think is out there?" she asks finally. When he turns a questioning look to her, she clarifies, "Do you think it'll be better, somehow? Whenever you get to where you're going."

"I don't know," Jesse answers honestly. He drops the butt of his cigarette, burying it in the sand with the toe of his sneaker. "I don't really know what I'm doing. None of this feels real, anyway. Always going and never getting anywhere. In there or out here, it's all… It's all so goddamn pointless."

"Then why go to all the trouble?" She has to know. If he's given up on life, if even he doesn't see a purpose for it all... "Why didn't you go to the police? Why'd you drag Saul into all of this? Why—"

"I don't _know_ ," he repeats more firmly, turning to face her. His eyes are a startling, icy blue in the sunlight. It's as if they're piercing right through her, with an intensity that's far greater than his voice even suggests. She's afraid, suddenly, that he knows exactly what she has planned for him. "I just wanted something else. Anything else. You know what that's like, don't you?"

She does. And unfortunately, the key to her _something else_ is standing right in front of her.

  


###### 

  


Shambling in after lunch, Hoffman and Van Oster barely have time to shed their jackets before one of the secretaries ducks into their office. "I've been looking all over for you two," she says, out of breath. "It's Ramey. He wants to see you."

Hoffman straightens up. "Did he sign off on the—?"

She cuts him off, shaking her head. "It's Las Vegas. You're going to want to see this. Just get to the meeting room."

A minute later, both agents step into the same room where Skyler White was making her case only a few days ago. Ramey's on the phone, but he interrupts the conversation the moment he sees them. "I'll call you back," he speaks into the receiver, then hangs up and faces Hoffman and Van Oster. "You took a statement from Walter White's son this morning. Do you have a tape of that for me?"

"It's being transcribed," Hoffman says. "If you want, we could—"

Ramey shakes his head. "Later. There's something you should see. It pertains to your request that we treat this as a kidnapping case." He reaches for the projector remote, flicking it on, and draws their attention to the wall.

It's a recording, the watermark placing it as a dash-cam from one of the LVMPD vehicles on-site outside the strip club where Skyler White's rental car was located. Thirty seconds of video plays, during which a few stragglers wander by the car. Then a pair of familiar figures come into view, and Ramey pauses the tape.

Hoffman's mouth drops open. "Is that..?"

Jesse Pinkman with his arm around Skyler White, cozy as a couple on a honeymoon.


	9. Route 62

Paranoia is a monster that Jesse Pinkman has gotten to know intimately. It's a symbiotic parasite, making its home in his spine and sending shocks of icy dread through his body whenever it senses the danger escalating. There are people out there in the world—blessed people, people who've never really had anything to fear—who are quick to dismiss paranoia, to call those fears imaginary. Those people sleep in a warm bed every night and wake in the morning knowing exactly what their day will bring.

Jesse hasn't known that luxury in years. As far as he's concerned, that paranoia is the thing that's kept him alive for so long. It used to be that he doubted his own senses—and those were the moments when he came closest to losing his mind or his life. Now he's learned to listen to the whispering in his head. Even when it keeps him up all night. Even when it makes his heart pound and leaves him in a cold sweat on a hot day.

Today, the whispering is so loud it deafens him. Skyler and Saul are discussing lunch plans, but their voices fade out into a buzz of white noise. It's taking all of Jesse's concentration to keep his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. When was the last time he slept? It must have been Colorado. No more than a few blinks since then.

"...Jesse."

So distant he doesn't hear it.

"Jesse?" Skyler touches his arm and he jumps in his seat, the car swerving for a second before he gets it back under control.

She looks alarmed when he glances at her. Likely a reflection of his own expression. "Sorry," he mutters, squeezing the steering wheel. "What'd you say?"

"Get off at the next exit," she repeats.

"And try not to kill us while you're at it," Saul calls out from the back seat.

"You're one to talk," Jesse retorts as he switches lanes and turns off onto Route 62 for Joshua Tree. "What am I looking for?"

" _Anything_ ," Saul sighs, turning a sour look out to the endless stretch of sand on either side of the highway. "Fucking desert."

"I think it's beautiful." Skyler sounds more peaceful now than she did earlier. Dreamy, almost. Jesse glances at her again and finds a small smile on her lips. It sends a chill down his spine.

After about a half hour, a town blooms out of the wilderness and the highway becomes a boulevard lined with tall palm trees. Jesse slows the car a bit to give them a chance to look around. "We stopping or passing through?"

"Stopping," Skyler tells him. She points to a motel further ahead. The sign announces it as the 29 Palms Inn. "There."

  


###### 

  


It's a bungalow rather than a room, which Jesse supposes is nice. It's private, at least. Essentially a small adobe house surrounded by a wall that's tall enough to shield the windows from passersby. They're able to get Saul from the car to the bedroom without anyone around to even notice how injured he is. The interior is clean and spacious and home-like, which makes it an improvement over the last couple of motels they've stayed at. Once they've got Saul settled into one of the beds, Jesse turns to head back into the living room.

Only Skyler's standing in his way, physically blocking the doorway. "Nah uh," she says, shaking her head. "You, too."

Jesse blinks blearily at her. "What?"

"Sleep." She pushes against his chest, backing him up a few steps. "You can't keep this up. You need to rest, too."

"She's right, kiddo," Saul says from behind Jesse. He's already got his sleeping mask on.

"Thanks for your concern, mom and dad," Jesse utters sarcastically, "but that's not happening." He shoulders past Skyler without granting her an opportunity to argue with him and makes a beeline for the kitchenette to start a pot of coffee.

Skyler follows after him, hovering over his shoulder. "I haven't seen you shut your eyes once."

"I'll sleep when we hit Mexico," he replies, turning to face her. "Or wherever we're going."

She purses her lips, disapproving. "Saul's going to be recovering for at least a week. Maybe two. How are we supposed to do any of this if you don't stay alert?"

"What do you think I'm doing? Nobody's alert when they're asleep."

"I can handle things here for a few hours, Jesse. Just—"

"Why's it so important to you, anyway?" Jesse snarls, uncharacteristically vicious. When Skyler's eyes widen in alarm, he realizes his error and cringes, his head bowed in remorse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's… I just can't, okay? I can't sleep right now."

Skyler's irritation has evolved into something unreadable. "Okay," she says, recognizing the futility of further argument. She slips her purse onto one shoulder, heading for the door. "I'm going to pick up something to eat."

  


###### 

  


Night falls over the Mojave Desert. Jesse maintains his vigil at the window, staring through the slats in the blinds as the painted colors of sunset give way to blackness. The cozy little house is silent but for Saul's labored breathing in the bedroom. Occasionally, Jesse feels himself growing closer and closer to sleep. Whenever he finds himself nodding off, he gets up to fix another pot of coffee or smoke a cigarette. The hours pass in a slow and lonely way that reminds him of the days spent in Todd's cell.

Just a week ago. That was just a week ago.

The image of Todd's face flashes in Jesse's mind, his mouth hanging open and tongue lolling. Surprise at first. Then horror. Then nothing but the animal instinct to gasp for whatever breath he could, before Jesse brought the struggle to an end with a yank of his chains, snapping Todd's fragile spine.

" _Jesse_."

Always so soft-spoken, gently urging. Pleading. Encouraging. Relentless whispers in his ear.

" _Jesse. Jesse._ "

Blankets rustle in the other room. A hoarse voice calls, "Jesse?"

Jesse snaps out of his reverie and shuffles into the bedroom. Every light in the place is turned off but he navigates through the dark with ease, coming to a stop beside Saul's bed. He's ready with a glass of water, which he sets down on the nightstand. "How're you feeling?"

"How do you think? There's a hole in my side." Saul sits up with a pained groan and brings the water to his lips. Once he's finished drinking, he asks, "Where's Skyler?"

"Dunno."

Saul turns a sharp look up at Jesse. "What do you mean, 'dunno'?"

Jesse shrugs. "I mean she said she was gonna get food and she never came back, so I dunno."

"Oh, Jesus." For whatever reason, that sends Saul into a panic. He tosses the blankets aside and pushes himself to the edge of the bed, gathering up the strength to stand. "We gotta find her. Did she take the car?"

"Nah, it's parked outside." Exhaustion and defeat prevent him from getting caught up in it like Saul is, but Jesse shares the anxiety, simmering beneath that apathetic surface.

"Why the hell didn't you stop her, Jesse?"

"Stop her from eating, or..?"

"From _leaving_ ," Saul hisses. He makes his first attempt to stand and fails, sliding back onto the bed.

Jesse makes no move to assist. "She's not our hostage, Saul. She can leave if she wants to."

"So if she's down at the station giving a report right now, that doesn't bother you?"

Jesse comes close to smiling. "Bother me? Like, um, more or less than her trying to kill me? Let's be real here. We both know I'm not getting outta this. Her calling the cops is probably the best ending there is."

"For _you_ , maybe." Saul seizes hold of Jesse's arm and makes a new attempt to stand—succeeding this time, though he has to lean on Jesse for support. "We've gotta find her."

Jesse pulls the car keys from his pocket, obeying out of habit. Then he reconsiders. Why, exactly? Why should they find her? What's the reason, except to spare Saul from the punishment that's already heading Jesse's way?

"...You go."

"What?"

"You go. Just go. I'm good here. Get to a doctor or something. Forget about this shit." He presses the keys into Saul's hand. "I mean it. Fucking leave already. You're off the hook. Get outta here."

Saul gapes at him for a moment, unsure how to take the development after a week of being forced to stay by Jesse's side. When Jesse doesn't waver, his hand closes around the keys and he steadies his footing, taking his weight off Jesse so that he can step slowly to the door.

Jesse gives him an encouraging nod, keeping back. He waits until Saul's out of the room before reaching for his jacket to pull the gun from its pocket. It'll be fine. Skyler's gone and in a minute Saul will be gone, too. They all gave it their best shot and Jesse's grateful that he at least got this one week to see the world again. There was so much beauty out there, so much that was kept from him while he was in chains, and he got his chance to say goodbye to it.

He's tired now, though. And the urgent whispering in his ear is telling him there's very little time left. The police will be on their way shortly. And he cannot—must not—ever find himself in a cell again.

Jesse raises the gun, pressing the muzzle under his chin, and holds still as he listens to the movement in the next room. Saul's gathering his things. The front door swings open. Jesse touches his finger to the trigger, waiting.

"What're you doing out of bed?"

That's Skyler's voice. In his surprise, Jesse fumbles and nearly drops the gun. He doesn't even hear Saul's reply. He barely has time to tuck his pistol into the back of his jeans before the light switches on and Skyler walks into the bedroom, her hands full of grocery bags. She gives a slight jump when she sees Jesse standing there in the middle of the room. "Oh, were you about to finally get some sleep?"

"N-No," Jesse stammers, his brain struggling to catch up to the moment. It's whiplash, going from nearly blowing his head off to pretending everything's just fine.

"Then help me with these." She shoves a pair of bags into his hands and returns to the living room. "No, _you_ sit down," he hears her order Saul.

Pale and shaken, Jesse steps out of the bedroom and moves to the kitchenette to begin unloading groceries into the fridge. She's clearly bought enough to last them a while. For as long as it'll take Saul to recover, it looks like.

Jesse glances over and sees that Saul's taken his place on the couch, looking about as shocked as Jesse. He hadn't anticipated Skyler's return, either. Yet there she is, unpacking a fast food meal onto the table in front of him.

As soon as Jesse's finished putting the groceries away, he turns to start a fresh pot of coffee. Skyler catches him at it, however, and intercepts him. "No," she tells him firmly, seizing him by the wrists. "Come with me."

He flinches, but his body reacts with a kind of intuitive surrender his mind can't fight anymore. He allows her to lead him back into the bedroom, and she shuts the door behind them for a bit of privacy. Jesse remains mute, still stunned to see her and numb to whatever he's meant to be feeling. Is it relief or devastation?

"Jesse, are you with me?" she asks, catching his gaze and holding it.

He nods, though he isn't sure.

"I want you to listen to me: Nothing bad is going to happen."

Jesse blinks slowly. He doesn't know why she's telling him this.

Skyler reaches around him to slide the gun out of his waistband. She must have seen it earlier. It wasn't well-concealed. Jesse allows her to take it, frozen where he stands, and watches as she sets it aside on top of the dresser. Then she meets his eyes again. "Nothing bad is going to happen," she repeats. "Do you believe me?"

"Yes," he answers automatically.

That's not good enough for her. "Do you _believe_ me?" she stresses.

He's silent, hesitating. He doesn't believe her, of course. Saul's been shot. The police are after him, and so is some crazed gunman, and Skyler herself. Skyler wants to kill him. Or else cage him. And Jesse is ready for either of those things. But they're all bad. The only things that _can_ happen are bad. So she's lying.

"Stay with me, Jesse," Skyler says, and he realizes he must have drifted off into his head. He looks up into her eyes again. "Nothing bad is going to happen. Jesse, nothing bad is going to happen. Tell me you understand."

"Nothing bad's gonna happen," he echoes back to her. It's weak. It's the best he can do.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him down until he's sitting on the edge of the bed. "I can't do any of this without you, Jesse," she tells him. He starts to look away, so she cups his face between her hands and physically holds his attention. "You have to listen to me. You have to take care of yourself. You have to trust me. Can you do that?"

"I don't…"

"Can you?"

He's so tired, he's shaking. Or is it the fear that's making him do that? "Where am I gonna be when I wake up?" he asks her before he can even consider the words. He's not fully sure what he means by it, but it's foremost on his mind.

"Here," she answers. "You'll be right here."

"Promise?" he pleads with tears gathering in his eyes.

Skyler presses him back, laying him down on the mattress. "When you wake up, you'll be here. And so will I. And so will Saul. I promise. So you can sleep now, Jesse. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Nothing bad is gonna happen," he murmurs as his head hits the pillow. Like saying it can make it true.

  


###### 

  


When he wakes, he can hear them whispering in the other room. The sound hits his ears like nails scratching inside the walls, an ominous noise as if something's coming to get him. The whispering used to be Todd and Jack or Kenny and Lester or any of the others, and it all used to mean the same thing: that suffering was coming to Jesse.

As much as he tries to convince himself that's not the case now, he can't seem to manage to believe it. He's travelling with his surviving enemies, after all. They're the people who have no reason to do anything but hurt him.

Jesse climbs out of bed as silently as he can. The gun is gone from the spot where Skyler had placed it before he went to sleep, and that does nothing to ease his apprehension. It could be that she was simply storing it out of sight, but in all likelihood, she's carrying it herself. 

He creeps up to the closed door and leans in, holding his breath to listen. He can tell Skyler's doing most of the talking, but he can't make out the words. Saul's few responses are unintelligible as well. Eavesdropping proves to be a hopeless cause. Jesse gives up and reaches for the doorknob.

Both Skyler and Saul shut their mouths the moment Jesse steps into the room, turning wary eyes to him. They're seated side-by-side on the couch. It's no wonder he couldn't hear them. "Don't stop on my account," Jesse mutters, shuffling over to the coffee maker.

"There's cereal," Saul points out helpfully.

It's not actually that helpful. Jesse had unpacked the groceries himself, after all. He's aware. "I'm not hungry."

Skyler frowns and returns her attention to Saul. "We should move you to the bed. It'll put less strain on your wound."

"I could use a nap anyway," Saul replies, strained as he moves to stand. Skyler puts an arm around him and the two of them step away and into the bedroom, Jesse pretending to busy himself with preparing his coffee while he listens for any more words exchanged. But Skyler only tells Saul to rest, and a moment later she's back in the living room, shutting the door behind her.

"What were you guys talking about?" Jesse asks, getting straight to the heart of it. He doesn't expect the truth, but he's curious what she'll say.

"My options," Skyler replies without a moment's pause to consider her answer. "Legally-speaking."

"Mm." Sure.

"Frankly, escape is still looking like the best choice." Skyler reaches for the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. "And that's not saying much, considering our limited resources and Saul's condition."

"Is he getting worse?"

"It's hard to say." Skyler clasps her mug between both hands and turns to examine Jesse, who's avoiding her eyes. "Crossing the border won't be easy. He can't do it like this. And while he's offered to get in touch with a few of his old connections, I'm not sure we can rely on that."

"Nobody knows we're here," Jesse murmurs. "We can wait for a couple weeks, like you said before."

"Can you handle that?" Skyler asks him, staring intently. "Waiting that long."

Jesse glances at her. He's not sure what she means by that. "Of course I can."

It's not a satisfying answer for her. "Jesse, I don't know what you've been through these past few months, but I know that it's changed you. What I need to know is… If we're going through this together… I need to know that change isn't dangerous. Not to me, not to Saul—"

Jesse opens his mouth, ready to protest.

"—And not to yourself."

He hesitates there, turning away from her again. "I don't... I don't wanna hurt anybody."

"Don't you?" Skyler touches his arm, drawing him back. "I don't think that's true, Jesse. There's someone you've been hurting since I found you in Vegas. And I need you to promise you'll stop."

Jesse glances at her hand on his arm before lifting his gaze to her eyes. She's talking about him, of course. The lack of sleep, the lack of appetite, the way he allowed himself to be cornered and the fact that he was carrying his gun last night. It's strange, though. If anyone would welcome his self-sacrifice, it's her. "Don't you want me gone?" he asks softly.

" _No_ ," she replies emphatically. "No matter what happens, Jesse, I can't lose you. More than Saul—more than anyone—I need you."

"For your deal." Jesse isn't stupid. This isn't some kind of concern for his well-being. She simply needs him to stay alive so she can use him. So there's someone to offer up in trade.

Skyler's expression hardens. She clearly didn't expect to be called out. "Maybe," she admits coldly. "If it comes to that, then maybe. But on the other hand, maybe not. Maybe I just need your help to survive like this, Jesse. Maybe you're the only one who's trapped the same way I am. Maybe we're all we've got."

Jesse focuses on her fully, searching her eyes for the kind of manipulation her husband would have unleashed on him. But she's stone-faced. Nothing soft and pleading about her words. She resents all of this. Being at Jesse's mercy is the last thing she wants. She can take his gun away but she can't really keep him with her, can't keep him alive if he's determined to leave the world entirely. The best she can do is issue orders with an air of authority and hope that he listens to her.

It's a difficult position he's put her in, and he's sorry for that.

"Don't ever lie to me," he says at last. "Promise you'll be straight with me. Whether you decide to kill me or turn me in or whatever you wanna do, don't keep it a secret from me. I wanna know what you want from me. I can't wonder about it. It's the not knowing… The not knowing for sure, that's what'll push me off the edge. So I always wanna know. I _have_ to know."

Understanding dawns on Skyler's face and Jesse recognizes an empathic connection there. She's felt this very same thing. That same doubt.

...Of course she has. She was married to Walter White.

"Okay," she agrees, her voice quiet. "I'll never lie to you."

  


###### 

  


Dinner's nearly ready when Jesse walks into the bedroom to wake Saul. The light of the setting sun casts a red glow into the room, illuminating Saul's face. It doesn't look like a peaceful rest. Saul's brow is drawn and coated with sweat. He's mumbling in his sleep. Negotiating with someone in his dreams. Begging for his life, maybe.

When Jesse reaches down to touch his shoulder, Saul jerks back and opens his eyes, fearful. The way he shrinks into his pillow, it's almost as if Jesse was the figure in his nightmares.

"Sorry," Jesse murmurs, taking a step back. "It's just… Skyler thought you should eat something."

It takes a moment to register with Saul. He comes down gradually out of the nightmare, like he isn't altogether sure he's not still in it. Trembling, he pushes himself up into a sitting position. "Thanks," he croaks as he places one hand on the bedpost, steeling himself.

Jesse moves closer again to get a better look at him. "Are you, um… Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Saul answers, brushing him off. "Yeah, I'm great."

Jesse doesn't buy it. He reaches out, touching the back of his hand to Saul's forehead. "You got a fever."

Saul swats that hand away. "It's just hot in here. Come on, help me up if you wanna be useful."

With a sigh, Jesse bends to put an arm around Saul and haul him to his feet. It's not the room that's hot, but Skyler will do a better job of lecturing than Jesse.

"Wait a second." Even with Jesse's support, Saul's wobbling on his feet. He swallows hard, gripping tight to Jesse's shoulder. When Jesse looks at him again, he finds that the fear hasn't really faded from Saul's expression. And there's something else to it, the kind of dread Saul gets on his face when he doesn't want to tell the truth but it's being forced out of him. "Jesse... I don't think I can keep—"

"Get in here!" Skyler calls suddenly from the living room. She's frantic, Jesse's heart leaping into his throat at the sound of her voice. "Quick! Right now!"

Saul forgets what he was saying and starts moving, nudging Jesse along with him, and the two of them hobble to the doorway in a hurry. They find Skyler in front of the television, the evening news flashing on the screen. Jesse's old mugshot is on display—along with a photo of Skyler.

"...initiating a nationwide manhunt for Skyler White, wife of notorious methamphetamine kingpin Walter White—also known as Heisenberg. Authorities have reason to believe she's traveling with Jesse Pinkman, who disappearing in March following the murders of DEA Special Agents Hank Schrader and Steven Gomez. The FBI is asking for any information regarding their whereabouts after a sighting in Las Vegas on Saturday night. The fugitives are considered highly dangerous and are suspected to be heading southwest toward Mexico…"

Skyler turns to them, her mouth agape in horror. "How do they know?" she asks Jesse. "Vegas… I thought… I thought nobody saw us."

"They didn't," Jesse insists, desperate to believe that assertion. "They _didn't_. They woulda stopped us. They woulda—"

"Cameras," Saul mutters, his bleary eyes still focused on the screen. The only silver lining is that his photo doesn't appear there along with them.

"What do we do?" Skyler looks between the two of them, searching for an answer that will somehow undo this. No one was supposed to know what she was doing. No one was supposed to know she was _gone_. And now the narrative has swayed in the completely wrong direction. She and Jesse are being painted as associates. As partners-in-crime. It was an inevitability, maybe, but it wasn't meant to happen until after they were out of the country. "What do we _do?_ " 

"We get in the car," Saul tells her, resigned. There's no other choice. "We get outta here before somebody writes down that plate number and figures out there's three of us."


	10. Route 86

Jesse opens the driver's side door and steps out onto the beach. The sight around them is surreal—dream-like, the way the blue gradient of the horizon blends seamlessly into the water. If he takes a few steps forward, he'll walk straight into the approaching sunrise.

The passenger's side door shuts as Skyler steps out of the car to join him. Jesse glances at her, then past her, to the ruins of this lakeside town. If it could even be considered a town. The streets are all paved, each with signs proclaiming cute names like Sea Kist Ave., as if it was meant to be a sprawling suburb. But most of the lots are empty, the houses never built or else swallowed by the desert, and nothing except dust occupies those suburban streets.

"What the hell is this place?" Jesse asks in a whisper, as if he's afraid he might disturb whatever tore through here and wiped out the town. It feels like he just stepped into the end of the world.

"The highway sign said Salton City." Skyler's voice is equally quiet, but it's Saul she's trying not to disturb. He's asleep in the back seat.

"Sure don't look like any city." Jesse turns back to the water and begins walking toward it. The white sand crunches under his feet in a way he didn't expect, splintering like twigs instead of rocks or seashells. When he looks down, he realizes it's not rocks or sand at all, but bones. The beach is covered in a layer of bleached bones. Sea creatures, birds, rodents, and other bones he can't begin to identify. "Jesus…"

Skyler bends to pick up one of the skeletons: a fish that's fully intact. She holds it against the sky, examining its silhouette. "At least it doesn't look like we'll be running into anyone."

Jesse finds that less reassuring than she does. "Do you think whatever killed them is gonna kill us?"

"Well," Skyler gives him a small smile and tosses the skeleton back into the lake with a flick of her fingers, "I wouldn't drink the water."

Jesse didn't plan on it, anyway. There's a stench all around the place which he now recognizes as the stink of death. The carcasses aren't just scattered on the beach. The lake must be full of them, all of them decaying in the water.

"Should we check out that one?" Skyler asks, pointing to one of the empty houses a bit further down the beach.

"I guess…" Jesse starts heading toward it, but he gives a nervous glance back in the direction of the car. "Is he gonna be okay in there alone?"

"This isn't a zombie movie," Skyler reminds him.

It sure feels like one, though.

The sun finally breaks the horizon as they come up on the beach house, washing it in pink light. It's a blessing, because otherwise they'd be exploring it in total darkness, and it's enough of a hazard as it is. Half of the roof collapsed ages ago, the windows all smashed in and covering the floor in debris. But the spooky thing about it is how everything else is still inside. Whoever lived here left in a hurry, and abandoning their furniture and their appliances and even the kids' toys and framed photos hanging on the walls.

"What do you think really happened?" Jesse asks Skyler, since she's so sure it won't get them, too.

"A flood," she answers, extending a finger to point out the water line left behind on the faded, peeling wallpaper. She opens a cupboard and pulls out an ancient Nesquik can, turning it over to find the expiration date. "Close to forty years ago."

"Hope they made it," Jesse murmurs, his eyes still on the family photos.

"In any case, I don't think it's anything we have to worry about." Even the mold is likely long-dead, for how dry the area's become in the past four decades.

Jesse turns to her. "So we're setting up camp?"

"Best place to disappear is a town that already disappeared, don't you think?"  
  


###### 

  
They won't last a full week, Jesse's sure of it. The days are too hot, the nights too cold, and the food that hasn't already rotted is going fast. The plumbing still works—miraculously—but the water that comes out of the faucets smells just like the water in the lake. He's not sure it's safe enough to bathe in, let alone drink.

Skyler's willing to take the necessary risk of a shower. She sits on the edge of the bathtub, smearing dye through her hair, wearing Saul's terrycloth robe and a pair of his flip-flops to protect her feet from the crumbling drywall all over the floor.

Saul would probably protest if he was conscious. But he's spent most of the past forty-eight hours in a feverish sleep, curled up on an old mattress in the master bedroom.

"Jesse?" Skyler calls, and he leaves Saul's bedside to step into the bathroom. She has her back to the door, looking at him over her shoulder. "Can you help me with this?"

"Sure, I guess." He takes the bottle of dye from her and reaches for her hair. He's done this before, of course, but very quickly realizes it's going to be much more difficult with hair as long as hers. "Um… Sorry if it comes out looking like shit."

"I'm not trying to win any beauty contests," Skyler replies with a weak laugh. "Just make sure you cover the old color."

Jesse glances at the box sitting on the shelf beside them. It's hard to tell from the dye itself, but the picture's showing off a mousy brown, dull to the point of nearing grey. "It's a shame. The blonde's really pretty."

Skyler sighs lightly. "Yeah. But this one's closer to my natural color."

"Shit, sorry. I didn't mean—"

Skyler waves off the apology. "No, no. I agree with you. I always hated it."

Jesse runs his fingers through her hair as carefully as he can, smearing the dark dye through it. "We'll fix it as soon as we cross the border," he promises.

"Right after we pick out our seaside hacienda and get a dog?" Skyler jokes dryly.

A rueful huff escapes Jesse. "Why not."

"I'm thinking gulf-side. The water's warmer."

"Long as it smells better than this place."

They both seem to realize in that moment that they're making plans—albeit outlandish ones—about what happens when they get to the other side. It's the first time they've really talked about it, and now they fall into uneasy silence with their awareness. They're steadily approaching the point of no return. Once they're in Mexico, Skyler won't be able to change her mind.

"It's not too late," Jesse mumbles, sensing where her mind is going. "I know Saul told you there's pretty much no hope, but it's not true, you know? Not if you give 'em what they really want."

"Jesse… I have to tell you something." Skyler reaches up to touch his arm, stopping him so she can turn to look at him again. "Saul told me what you went through. Before this."

"...Oh." Well. That shouldn't be a surprise, but it is.

Her gaze drops to the fading marks around his wrists before she meets his eyes again. "He didn't want to. I practically had to force it out of him."

So that's what they were talking about when he walked into the room back at Twentynine Palms. That's why the atmosphere was so tense. "He shouldn'ta told you. It's not important."

"It is, though," she insists. "It is, because it helped me make up my mind."

He stares at her, uncertain.

"I can't do that to you. I can't be like him. I can't condemn you to that life again. I _won't_."

It doesn't sound like a lie. There's no need for her to try and convince him of anything. She's in control of this situation now, and if she wanted to, she could turn him in and there'd be nothing he could do to stop her. He doesn't even have his gun anymore.

No, the reason she's telling him this is because she means it. She has tears in her eyes—not for him, he's sure, but for herself and her family and all the things she's losing because she's chosen to do this for him.

"Thank you," he says to her. The only thing he _can_ say, really. As much as he wants to argue for her sake, he can't bring himself to do it. The sacrifice. When he thinks about prison, he comes right back around to courting suicide. And that isn't an option, either. Not if helping her is truly what he wants.

Skyler isn't finished. And for the first time, it becomes apparent just how much this decision has been weighing on her. "Jesse, I can't help but feel responsible for what happened to you," she confesses. "And I know Saul does, too, even if he's afraid to show it. The both of us… Walt didn't want to kill you, but we were the ones who urged him on. We talked him into it. We—We _pushed_ him to it."

"No." Jesse shakes his head. She's trying to look him in the eye, but he looks beyond her, focusing on the shattered bathroom tile.

It's almost as if she doesn't hear him. "I'm so sorry, Jesse," she whispers, looking at the scars on his face. They've taken on a new meaning now that she knows where they came from. "If I'd known, I would have never… It's not who I am. I was never that kind of person."

Jesse refocuses on her. "It doesn't matter," he tells her. "He did what he did. You did what you did. We are who we are. There's no denying it, no undoing it. It doesn't matter what we always thought we were, 'cause it all comes down to the shit we chose to do. Saul, you, me… and him. We made our choices and we ruined each other's lives. Being sorry doesn't change that."

Skyler looks away. It sounds like admonishment, a denial of her apology.

But Jesse goes on: "There's more to it, though. There's not just yesterday. We can wake up the next day and become a different person. That's what I learned. I was somebody else before I met him, and I became a new somebody else the day he died. I don't know who, yet, but the point is—What you decide to do _today_ … That's what matters. That's the only thing you can control."

When she looks at him again, there's the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Maybe we all died with him," Jesse says to her, "so we can be something else now."

And with that, Jesse goes back to smearing the mousy brown dye through her hair.  
  


###### 

  
Marie can see them already, just as she steps out of her newly-recovered Beetle. They're swarming outside the door to the DEA's offices, waiting to catch one of the agents on their way out. They haven't noticed her yet, and for a moment she considers going around the back entrance. One of the office girls would let her in, surely, if she called upstairs.

But as she starts walking in the direction of the building, a different urge overtakes her, shaking her up inside. God damn, but she's _angry_. She's so angry at Ramey and the rest of them. First they failed Hank and now they're failing her sister, offering Skyler up in sacrifice to the politicians and the bloodthirsty public. There's no reason for them to have given up on her yet. The only evidence they have is some footage of Skyler and Jesse Pinkman arm-in-arm, an image they're twisting around to suit their story when it could mean a thousand different things.

They don't care about justice. They just care about closing the case.

Marie veers off her path, walking toward the crowd, and of the journalists takes notice. "Marie Schrader!" he calls out, holding out a microphone and dragging his cameraman along with him. "Mrs. Schrader, do you have anything to say about the latest developments?"

By the time she's near enough to speak, the rest of the reporters are closing in around her, each pointing their microphones until she's trapped in a circle of them. "I do," she says, turning as she talks to give each of them a shot of her face. "The allegations against my sister are _false_. Skyler has been a victim of domestic abuse for years now at the hands of her husband, and now she's a victim of kidnapping at the hands of his goons. Make no mistake: They've taken her away from us to keep her silent. She's a victim and she needs your help to get her home safely. Nothing matters more than returning her to her children. Put _that_ on your front pages."

One reporter steps forward. "How can you be so sure about your own sister's innocence when you and your husband failed to notice your brother-in-law's ongoing illegal activities?"

"Because I know her," Marie snaps back. "More than the DEA and certainly more than any of you. My sister wants nothing more than to guarantee the safety of her family. Under no circumstances would she willingly collude with her ex-husband's criminal associates. She's with Jesse Pinkman now because he kidnapped her and has been holding her against her will. We should be praying to God that she's even still alive."

The doors to the building swing open and Ramey steps out, flanked on either side by uniformed officers. "Clear the way," he calls out to the press. "Please allow Mrs. Schrader through. Any attempts to bar her from entry will be seen as obstruction of justice."

"My sister is innocent!" Marie shouts as the crowd scatters. "Print that! She's innocent!"  
  


###### 

  
They don't have much in the way of first aid. Back in Twentynine Palms, Skyler had only been able to acquire a few small items from the local grocer, which was little more than a convenience store. As a result, treating Saul's wound is a matter of rubbing alcohol and gauze bandages, and she's certain she's not doing it right.

She leans over his sleeping body, gently tugging his shirt up to reveal his abdomen. Despite her best efforts not to wake him, he stirs and opens his eyes, focusing groggily on her. "Ah," he mumbles, hoarse. "You changed your hair."

"Thanks for noticing," she replies with a tilt of her head, the playful kind of response she might have given him if they were at a bar and he paid her the compliment, in better times.

That cheers him up a bit, a smile tugging at his lips before he gives a glance around. "Where's the kid?"

"Watching the road." Skyler begins peeling back the old bandage. It's sticky, and she and Saul flinch simultaneously as it tugs on the burn.

"He—augh—He worried about something or..?"

Skyler shakes her head. The old bandage comes free and she tosses it aside, reaching for the bottle of alcohol. "I think he just wanted some time alone."

"Makes sense." At least, it falls in line with Saul's understanding of the deeply traumatized. He sighs, glancing down at the burn in his side. It's looking uglier every time he sees it, red-hot and oozing pus. "We still headed for Mexico?"

"As soon as you're healthy enough to drive us through the checkpoint without raising suspicion." Which… is looking less and less like a feasible outcome.

Saul knows it, too. He can see it on her face. "It's bad, isn't it," he comments. Not really a question.

"It's infected," Skyler admits. "And it's going to keep getting worse unless we can find a way to get you some antibiotics."

Saul goes quiet, turning his gaze to the gaping window facing the sea. Getting antibiotics isn't going to be as simple as calling up a doctor and running down to the store. And the pain is so bad already, there's no way he'll be able to make the drive now.

"It's not too late to—"

Saul shakes his head, returning his attention to her. "We agreed: I get you through the border. Anything else has to wait until after that if we wanna make sure you don't get caught and—most importantly— _I_ don't get caught."

Skyler sighs. This is too foolish to let slide. "Saul, if you're doing this because you think you deserve—"

"Do I look that selfless?" he chuckles, waving off her concern. "We're committed now. The less time we waste wringing our hands about it, the better. Mexico's got doctors, too. I just need a little rest before we hit the road."

Skyler frowns and turns her focus to cleaning off the burn before she secures a new bandage over it. "There," she murmurs, rolling his shirt down over it. "Get some more sleep. I'm going to put some gas in the car. Jesse will be here if you need anything."

"Yes, ma'am." Saul relaxes back against his pillow, grateful that the hard part's over. "Be careful." 

Not that it needs to be said.  
  


###### 

  
When they break for lunch, Marie heads straight to the roof of the building. It's the only place where she can have some privacy, away from the agents and the lawyers and the news crews. It's only an hour before she gets called in again, and she wants to spend this hour in total silence.

Even with the sun on her skin and the brisk wind blowing around her, she can't quite pull her mind away from the meeting room. She runs through the whole thing again, reviewing the words that came out of her mouth, hoping that she didn't say too much—but also praying that she isn't saying too little, too little to save Skyler if one of those details might be the thing that can bring her home safe.

Tears sting at her eyes and Marie furiously brushes them away. She can't walk back in there looking like she's spent the entire hour sobbing.

The sharp, piercing ringtone of her cell phone is almost a blessing. It draws her straight out of her misery and throws her back into business mode as she flips it open and brings it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Marie…"

Marie's heart leaps into her throat and she croaks, "Skyler?"

"I don't have much time—"

"Where are you? Are you okay? Oh my god…"

"I'm fine, but I need your help." Nearly seven hundred miles away, Skyler gives an uncomfortable smile to the clerk at the register. A gas station in the middle of an isolated reservation is a relatively safe place for her to poke her head up, given the notorious lack of law enforcement on Indian land. Still, if she sticks around too long, there's a chance he'll realize he's seen her on TV.

"What do you need?" Marie asks, bordering on shrill.

"How much do you remember about treating infected burn wounds?"

"What?" Why on earth would Skyler need to know that? "Are you hurt?"

"I'm not, no, but listen to me: I need to know right now."

"Is it him? Is it Pinkman? Just let him die, Skyler! You need to—"

" _Marie_ ," Skyler snaps. "Can you help me?"

Marie gives the sky a dumbfounded look, as if her sister can see it. "This is insane. I didn't last a week when I was candy-striping. How do you expect me to remember?"

"You've been working in a hospital for ten years. _Try_."

Marie squeezes her eyes shut, massaging her forehead with her fingers. "It was, um… You need a round of oxacillin. Or mezlocillin. But they're not over-the-counter. I mean, you'll be lucky if you can even—"

"Thanks," Skyler whispers. "I'll call you again soon."

"Skyler, wait—"

The line goes dead. Marie stares at her cell phone for a moment, then dials the number back.

"Apple Market," a man's voice answers. "How can I help you?"

"Hello, excuse me," Marie replies frantically. "Where are you located?"  
  


###### 

  
Night falls over the Coachella Valley, shrouding the palm-dotted desert in darkness. Alone on the road at this hour, the station wagon pulls up into the parking lot of CVS Pharmacy and circles slowly around the building.

"I'm counting two," Jesse murmurs to Skyler. "One outside each door, that's all."

"So you can park in a blind spot?" she asks, adjusting the gloves on her hands.

Jesse nods and turns the wheel, positioning the car closer to the back of the building while keeping it out of the camera's sight. "You'll wanna come out the back. That's where they keep everything, anyway."

Skyler takes one last look at the shopping list before folding it up and tucking it into her shoulder bag. Then she flips down the mirror and adjusts the scarf tied around her hair. "How do I look?" she asks him.

"Like you're in a spy movie," Jesse answers honestly. She looks shady as hell, but at least she's a woman. "Don't forget the sunglasses."

"Right." She opens up the glove compartment and grabs Saul's aviators, slipping them on. When she glances in the mirror again, she has to laugh. "Now I look ridiculous."

"You sure you can do this alone?" Jesse asks her, giving an anxious glance around the parking lot.

"A pharmacist isn't going to argue with a gun," Skyler replies, confident of that. "I'll be in and out in five minutes."

"I'll be here." With the engine running and ready to go.

Skyler gives him a brief smile and climbs out of the car.

The walk from the station wagon to the front door feels like it takes forever, the asphalt stretching out for miles ahead of her, and each step giving someone the opportunity to discover her and throw a wrench in the plan. But only two other cars are parked in the lot, most likely belonging to employees. It's late enough that there's a good chance no other patrons will walk in at all, and certainly not any heroes.

The ding of the bell when she walks through the door gives her a scare and she jumps before composing herself. Luckily, the cashier at the front is too busy reading a fashion magazine to have noticed. Skyler takes unhurried steps forward, moving through the aisles as casually as she can.

When she reaches the back of the store, she finds the pharmacist rearranging prescriptions in a basket. "One moment," he tells her without looking up.

"Of course," Skyler answers politely.

As the seconds pass, she becomes acutely aware of her surroundings: every potential exit path, every spot she can duck around to hide herself. The sounds, too: soft music playing over the speakers, papers shuffling, the central air droning overhead. And, just as the pharmacist finally turns to her, she hears the ding of someone else walking in through the front door.

There's no time to waste. Skyler's right hand slips into her purse.

At last, the pharmacist steps up to the counter. "How can I help you?"

"Oxacillin and mezlocillin," Skyler answers, clipped.

"Did you call in the order?" he asks, ready to type into his computer. "I'll need your name and date of birth."

"No," she says with a shake of her head. "Just the drugs. Now."

"I'm sure you know I can't just give you those without a prescri—" When he looks at her again, he realizes the muzzle of a gun is poking out of the top of her purse, aimed straight for him. His mouth drops open and he takes a step back.

"Hands where I can see them," Skyler orders, her voice low. "The only thing you're going to do is get me those drugs. Quietly. And then I'm going to leave. Peacefully. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he whispers, his throat gone dry. "Yes, I understand." He keeps his hands up as he turns for the refrigerated cabinet, fingers shaking when he reaches to begin sorting through bottles. He's trembling so badly, he knocks several of the bottles over and they roll onto the floor with a loud clatter.

"Hurry," she hisses at him.

"I'm sorry," he whimpers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He works quickly to gather up the medicine, dumping it all into a basket for her before bringing it over.

Skyler glances down at the bottles. "You need syringes for this stuff?"

"Y-Yes. The instructions are on the—"

"Get me the syringes," Skyler tells him. "Fast."

The old pharmacist ducks down, grabbing a handful of packaged syringes from under the counter, and when he starts to stand back up, he looks at something past Skyler. In his shock, he drops everything in his hands and dives to the floor.

Skyler turns to look over her shoulder and finds herself face-to-face with a police officer, his gun drawn and fixed on her. "Lower your weapon!" he barks.

Skyler's blood runs cold. Every thought in her brain evaporates into thin air and it's as if she can't remember English well enough to understand the words he's saying. The music playing over the speakers becomes louder than everything else. It's all white noise.

The officer takes a step forward, jabbing his pistol toward her. "Lower your—"

There's a flash of movement as a blurry figure leaps out from behind the officer. The gun goes off with a loud pop, the shelves to Skyler's left exploding into splinters as the bullet hits them. A second later, both the officer and the figure are wrestling on the ground, a tangle of limbs. It's Jesse, Skyler realizes with some delay, as the blood returns to her brain. Jesse stomps on the officer's wrist until the gun's free of his grip, kicks the thing away, and then focuses all of his power on the officer himself. It's a violent and chaotic display, everything happening too fast for Skyler to process.

When it's done, there's a pool of blood around the officer's head, the man's face looking like ground meat, and Jesse's climbing off of him with that same blood dripping from his knuckles.

"Let's go," he growls to her, raspy and out of breath, more like an animal than she's ever seen him. Without waiting, he leaps over the counter and begins gathering the syringes from the floor. He finds the pharmacist there, too, curled up in a ball. They exchange a long look, the pharmacist shrinking back in fear, but Jesse simply tells him, "That cop needs an ambulance."

Skyler dumps the medicine in her bag and rushes around to the back exit, her gun in hand. Jesse meets her there, unloading the syringes into her purse and then opening the door. The coast is clear, and the two of them rush for the car.

He left the keys in the ignition, and as soon as the doors are shut, the station wagon peals out of the parking lot.

"Is he—Is he dead?" Skyler asks, shaking with adrenaline.

"I hope not," Jesse utters. He glances at her and amends, "I don't think so."

"The girl at the front?"

"I didn't touch her." And he seems mildly offended by the accusation. "I just saw the cop walk in, so I followed him. I figured… You know."

"Yeah." Skyler's heart is still racing. "What do we do now?"

"We gotta get off the road. Too obvious right now."

They have about five minutes before word gets out to the other cops on patrol in Palm Desert. Jesse turns off the main throughway, taking them into a residential neighborhood. He cuts the lights and roams for a few blocks until he finds an empty driveway, pulling into it as silently as he can before he turns off the engine.

For a few tense moments, both he and Skyler watch the house for signs of life. But the owners either aren't awake or aren't home.

Finally, Skyler turns her gaze to Jesse's hands. He's still clutching the steering wheel, the polyurethane smeared with blood. He saved her life, she realizes. He jumped a trained officer with a weapon, without hesitation, and saved her life. "Are you okay?" she asks, her voice tender.

"I've been worse," he answers wryly, and turns to meet her eyes. "That was really…"

"Nostalgic?" she offers, as sardonic as he is.

Jesse gives her a quivering little smile. "I was gonna say 'stupid'."

Skyler stifles a giggle behind her hand. "That, too." And then she laughs again, as if all her nervousness has suddenly turned to giddiness.

"Shh," Jesse cautions. But it's contagious, and he's on the verge of laughing, too. How stupid of them. How ridiculous the whole plan was. They could have died—or worse, been arrested. All because they had to get medicine to keep _Saul_ from getting arrested. It's so dumb.

"Shut up," Skyler shushes when he begins snickering. It's uncontrollable, and she has to seize him by the face, pushing her palm against his mouth to muffle his laughter.

It does shut him up. Because, with a skip of his heart, he realizes his lips are against her skin. And she realizes the same. Her hands slowly draw back.

Their lips lock before either of them can work out who started it, the both of them overwhelmed by it. It's a warm kiss, a private celebration between them for their small victory against the universe and all its machinations. Her fingers stroke his scarred temple and he parts his lips against her soft mouth.

For once in a long time, the both of them feel relief instead of fear. For now—for this moment—they're safe. Together.


End file.
